


Bitter Protocol

by TheSolarSurfer



Series: Rebel Columbia [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon Compliant, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Drama, Family, Gen, Mystery, SHIELD, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 18:06:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 73,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17126195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSolarSurfer/pseuds/TheSolarSurfer
Summary: After two years in the Crucible, Amelia Fletcher thought she’d seen the worst in life. But in the wake of her 16th birthday, she learns that there is more in her story left to uncover. A well-needed father-daughter bonding experience in D.C. becomes a living nightmare when both Steve and Mia's past comes back to haunt them. The game of survival never ends. Sequel to Rebel Columbia.





	1. Chapter One

**Chapter One  
**

#  ✮

* * *

 

Cold. So cold.

"Желание."

_Longing._

Sleep pulling at eyelids. Heavy. Tired. No more, no more please. Distant dreams call. Fade.

"Ржавый."

_Rusted._

Ice, frosting breath. Cracking over clenched fist. A yellow light flickering overhead, darkness blinking. Watching, savage anticipation. Unknown chills go up his spine, then disappear before they reach his head.

"Cемнадцать."

_Seventeen._

Shoulders hunch, head hanging low. Hair dry and limp. Last time he washed? Felt clean? Never. Didn't matter. Irrelevant.

God, to be clean again. To wipe the ledger clean.

"Рассвет."

_Daybreak._

Something surfacing. Edge of his mind, an itch, an image. A face. Blond. Bright-eyed. A smile that stirs something deep in his chest. So soft and easy to break.

A friend. A brother.

A hope.

"Печь."

_Furnace._

Slipping away. Cold hand clenches around metal bar. Broken, dangling. A train. No, a bridge. A train... Reach out. Try to catch the hand offered.

To catch her.

Inches away. So close. Don't die. Don't die.

_I don't want to die._

"Девять."

_Nine._

Then falling.

Falling away.

"Добросердечный."

_Benign._

The face — faces — disappear. Sucked away, a cruel wish. They are nothing. They are nothing. He reaches for them, but they are gone.

He can't hear their words anymore.

"Возвращение на родину."

_Homecoming._

Snow. Snow. White. Blindness. Nothing here. Nothing left.

Found. A trail of blood. A broken piece left behind.

A metal table.

A metal hand.

"Один."

_One._

Alone.

"Грузовой вагон."

_Freight Car._

A purpose. A soldier. A tool. Nothing more. Nothing less.

To know. To hunt. To kill.

To teach.

Gray eyes burning.

A man in front of him. Fancy suit. Glasses. A familiar face. A friendly one.

But not a friend.

The soldier looks for the second face. The younger one. The girl. The one who must learn.

But she is not here.

He cannot remember why.

Then he doesn't remember her, either.

The soldier looks again, and all he knows is that something is missing.

The man in the suit tilts his head. Friendly face, cold eyes. Shrewd. Too shrewd. In a tongue that does not fit his mouth, the man asked, " _Are you ready to comply, soldier?"_

The soldier scans the room one last time, before settling on the man in the suit.

There is nothing there.

Nothing but the objective.

His own voice, cold, hard, unyielding.

" _Ready to comply_."

Brittle.

The man in the suit smiles. "Good. I have a mission for you..."

* * *

  



	2. Part One: The Man in the Glass - Ch. 2

  
  
**\- PART ONE -**  
  
**\- THE MAN IN THE GLASS -**

* * *

**Chapter Two**

# ✮

* * *

“Hey there, birthday girl!”

 _Thwap!_ A bright wrapped little box dropped down on my desk, and I looked up to see MJ’s self-satisfied smile as she plopped down in the seat next to mine. Glancing at the gift, I laughed a little and said, “It’s not my birthday for another two days.”

February was in full swing. Outside, the windows revealed a minor flurry taking place, what would turn into a bigger snowstorm this evening. Homeroom was covered in Valentine’s Day decorations, pink and red hearts and cut-outs of chubby cupids and their little bows. It made me itch a little just looking at them, but another part of me was nostalgic. I hadn’t seen a corny school Valentine’s Day in two years. I wondered if being in high school would make it any more extra than it was in eighth grade.

“I know.” MJ shrugged, lounging back against her chair. She wore a massive red wool scarf that scrunched up all her curly hair around her face like a halo. “I just wanted to be the first. Establish dominance and all that.”

“Sure,” I said with a wry look, smiling a little. _Establish dominance_. I should use that more.

More kids shuffled in, giant marshmallows of puffy coats, fuzzy hats, and giant book-bags. The loud hallway echoed into the room, and the TV in the upper left corner of the room was playing the school channel — out of the corner of my eye, I witnessed anchorman Jason Ionello try and fail to ask his co-anchor Betty to be his valentine.

"And I know you hate getting birthday gifts on Valentine’s Day,” Michelle added with a roll of her eyes, spiraling her hands as if this were a minor detail she only just remembered.

“Uh-huh,” I said, not quite believing her act. For the past week she had been asking me questions about my birthday and what I liked — some in more subtle ways than others (like friending me on Facebook to find whatever stuff I had on there behind the privacy wall, for example). MJ liked to look like she didn’t care about anything, but I had a sneaking suspicion she had been thinking about this a lot more than she wanted me to know.

“Well?” MJ pressed, raising her eyebrows and throwing a pointed look at the little box. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Okay, okay,” I  laughed, and as the final bell rang for homeroom I began pulling apart the ribbon and ripping open the paper. There was no card or message, just a cardboard box. I paused before opening it, smiling as I watched MJ slide to the edge of her seat in anticipation, before opening the box.  
     
“Aww, I love it!” Inside was a creation of MJ’s own making, it seemed. A bracelet made of interlocking bottle caps, fittingly retro in color and style. Slipping onto my wrist, I lifted my hand and let them jangle and clatter gleefully. I grinned at her, more than pleased. It was so MJ, and I couldn’t wait to annoy someone with it.

“Yes, it fits!” MJ grinned, slumping back in her seat in a combination of victory and relief. “I was afraid I made it too small for your giant man hands. Speaking of, is your dad still coming to your birthday?”

That immediately killed my enthusiasm. I dropped my arms, mood put out. “What does that have to do with my giant man hands?”

“Because I want to meet him!” MJ said, actually smiling a little. It made me scared she was being genuine this time. I couldn’t detect a hint of sarcasm and that was scary indeed. “C’mon, Mia! You know I’ve been dying to meet this mysterious baby daddy of yours.”

“Oh, god, please don’t call him that,” I cringed, the very thought forcing my head to the desk. I covered up my face, unable to look at MJ. “Great, now that’s going to be stuck in my head forever.”

She nudged me with her boot, persistent. “You’re avoiding the question! Is he or is he not coming?”

MJ hadn’t met my dad because I didn’t want her to, but she didn’t know that. She also didn’t know that my dad was Steve Rogers, which would be a pretty big deal when she figured out what _that_ meant. Aunt May had only figured out he was Captain America last month — he was good at keeping a low profile, so none of my neighbors really caught sight of him, or recognized him when they did. Despite the whole world knowing his real name, Steve somehow managed to live a private life.

A _very_ private life. Go figure.

Anyways, that wasn’t the real problem here. The real problem?

“I don’t know,” I finally answered with a deep sigh, lifting my head. “He said he’d be there, he promised me he wouldn’t miss it.”

“So?” MJ tilted her head. “Sounds like good news to me.”

“He said the same thing last time he missed dinner.” I reminded her.

“Psh, don’t worry about it,” MJ said, scoffing and waving the thought away with her hand. “It’s your Sweet Sixteen, Mia. The big one-six! Why wouldn’t your dad feel obligated to come to a party celebrating your coming-of-age that’s just a shallow construct of society as a way to engage more consumers in the economy?”

“I — what?”

“You haven’t been kissed yet, have you?” MJ leaned in with a whisper.

“N-no!” I shook my head, still reeling from her first spiel. What the hell did it matter that I’d been kissed. A little annoyed now, I retorted sarcastically, “No, I haven’t. Why, are you offering?”

“Well, no, but now that you mention it —”

“You know what, never mind,” I threw up my hands, killing that line of thought right there. “I’m sure you’re right. Maybe he’ll finally keep a promise this time.”

MJ leaned back in her seat, and the room quieted as the PA system turned on with today’s announcements and the Pledge of Allegiance. MJ remained seated while everyone else stood; including myself, but I refrained from joining my voice with the others. I had decided a week into the new semester that the Pledge was just an act of blind patriotism, and I wasn’t going to participate just for the sake of it.

I wasn’t quite bold enough to just sit through it like MJ could; standing felt like a sign of respect. Especially considering what the Old Glory meant to me now.

Not all positive things, unfortunately.

As I sat back down and announcements resumed, MJ spoke again. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t know things with your dad were that... rough. I thought things were good with the prodigal father returning.”

Her voice was quiet to avoid being overheard by Ms. Hennessey, our homeroom teacher (or anyone else for that matter), but there was a note of compassion there, too, enough for me to get over the ridge of resentment I found myself on to glance at her, then away again. I felt ashamed for my snippy attitude; I just didn’t talk about Steve much. I didn’t want to.

“They are... sort of,” I admitted at length, tucking my hair behind my ear. It’d grown since Christmas, since October; well past my chin now, I could pull it back into a small ponytail. It was nice to have it out of my face again. “I mean, I’m glad I have him, I’m glad I have someone to talk to but…”

“Not what you expected?” MJ guessed, raising an eyebrow in sympathy.

“You don’t know the half of it,” I muttered. I couldn’t even afford to tell MJ Steve’s name; if he did show up this Friday evening, then she’d get the big reveal. I was prepared for that. But it was a pretty big if. “I mean, I’m not angry at him, I know he cares, but he’s lives hours away and is always busy and I just, I feel like I can’t rely on him like… a real dad.”

Those last words made me wince I regretted saying them almost instantly. I didn’t want MJ to know my doubts, the can of radioactive worms that would open.

She took it another way, though. “I get it, man. But you say he really cares about you? Then he’ll definitely show up to your birthday. He’s gotta know how important it is to you.”

The first period bell rang.

“Yeah.” My voice was tiny as everyone jumped up from their seats, filling the room with din as they headed out the door. “I hope so.”

* * *

# ✮✮✮

* * *

“I’m sure he’ll show up, Mia,” Peter was unceasingly positive about the outcome of Friday’s party — even after I told him my thoughts as we were walking home from school that day. “Don’t you guys text every day?”

“Sometimes,” I glanced at my phone. It was the best way for me and Steve to communicate. He preferred phone calls, I knew, but texting felt safer, even if I struggled with reading and spelling mistakes. “Haven’t gotten anything today, though.”

The snowstorm had picked up, as I’d predicted, since this morning. The wind as well, and I found myself leaning into it a little as we went on our way.

“Probably just busy,” Peter shrugged, skipping along the sidewalk, scarf bouncing up and down. The cold wind turned his nose and ears bright pink. “Mr. Stark hasn’t answered any of my texts or messages since Christmas. And Steve came to the dinner week before last right? And he promised he’d be there for your birthday? I mean, come on. Captain America is a man of his word. That’s the best part about having him for a dad, right?”

I huffed a little, both sour and amused. “Well, I’d like a lot more than his word right now.”

To be honest, I was excited. Maybe more than I cared to admit. I wanted so, so bad for Steve to show up tomorrow. Since January, he’d been trying to make it a semi-tradition of having dinner at the Parker Homestead twice every week, trying to make it every Sunday at least — but had missed more than a few; sometimes he managed to cancel beforehand and my disappointment was curbed. Other times, though, I’d just sit at the dinner table in silence, eating slowly and watching the door. Just waiting for the knock, for him to come in all smiles and excuses about lousy weather, something a normal dad would do.

But it never happened.

Either he showed up. Or he didn’t.

And right now it was more often he didn’t.

Peter paused on the street, allowing me to catch up before he continued, in a more thoughtful manner. “Well, if he _doesn’t_ show up, at least you don’t have to worry about Aunt May figuring out what you really are, right?”

I made a face. “You’ve got a funny way of looking at things, Mav.”

“Hey! It’s what I do!” Peter grinned, throwing out his arms and swinging around a light pole. Then getting stuck because ice and spider fingers don’t mix very well apparently. He struggled for a moment to unstick himself before catching up with me. “Anyways, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

I was glad I had Peter to look on the bright side of things for me, because right now I was just getting more worried by the second. What if Aunt May figured out I was really a super soldier? She’d never said anything, not a word about what Steve was or did as it pertained to me. I knew she knew Steve Rogers was Captain America, a super soldier, a 90-year-old man from 1945. She had to know my change over two years had to have something to do with it. Did she know I was a super soldier? Did she know I was Rebel Columbia?

I figured I’d be in a lot more trouble if she did.

As it was, I was still grounded, and unlike Peter, had no interest in going behind May’s back and doing street-level vigilante work. In the dead of winter. In pajamas.

Which, when I turned around after a long stretch of silence, found exactly what I thought I’d see. “Oh, Peter, come on!”

“Here, take this,” He handed me his backpack, which he never took with him as Spider-Man. Peter was now wearing his “super” suit, which consisted of his custom-made webshooters, welding goggles, old sweatpants, and two toned hoodie — now with extra thermal padding. He must’ve ducked into an alleyway while my back was turned; Peter was always quick little guy, and now I was walking side-by-side with Spider-Man as he pulled his mask on.

“You’re going to get a cold if you keep doing this in bad weather,” I said in the best discouraging tone I could muster. No point in bringing up Aunt May — we were both well-aware of the consequences if Peter broke curfew for even a minute. “Forget about my secret identity, what about yours?”

“What? It’s fine! I know what I’m doing,” Peter had initially complained about the extra layers, since it apparently slowed him down; he wanted to tough out the cold like I could, but since I didn’t need to worry about the wind chill from swinging three hundred feet above the city, I didn’t have to. So thermal underwear it was.

“It keeps riding up,” he muttered, yanking on the inseam of his sweatpants, shoes flopping in the wet slush. I couldn’t convince him to switch out of his usual chucks, and could only imagine how cold his toes got just wearing those.  
  
“The curse all superheroes must bear in noble silence,” I said, nodding sagely. “Wedgies.”

“Ha-ha.”

“It’s what you get for being Spider-Man in the dead of winter.”

“It’d be a lot funner if you joined.”

I just scoffed. “Yeah, Rebel Columbia, roaming the streets of New York. Fallen on hard times since her epic showdown in Florida against the Mandarin.”

“What’s wrong with New York? Street-level stuff is great!”  
  
“For you, maybe,” I said, shrugging. Spider-Man was perfectly fit for sticking to a single city; he was way more mobile than I was, faster and stronger, and just, you know... neighborhood-friendly. I couldn’t move around the entire city like he could, and what with my particular get-up, I’d always be associated with Captain America. Or him with me. And he probably wouldn’t appreciate an upstart copycat trying to build a reputation with catching petty thieves and bank robbers.

In the end, it just wasn’t... feasible for me. And to be honest, I was kind of glad I had an excuse not to. “Pretty sure Steve would know right away what I was doing. And I’m eighty-nine percent positive SHIELD is still monitoring me.”

“Oh, right,” Peter grimaced. He had the benefit of not having Steve or anyone else knowing his secret identity. “Okay, good point. Have you talked to him about it at all? About Rebel Columbia?”

“No more than I already have,” I said, which is to say, not at all since the first day we met. I scowled at him, “You’re really just gonna go off like that, huh?”

“What? Yeah, why?” Peter replied, looking down at himself in his suit. We were lucky it was such a snowy day — there was virtually no one in the streets to notice the kid in the bright red-and-blue getup. “Is there something wrong with it?”

I wanted to say ‘yes’ but didn’t think that’d be enough to convince him to stop. Instead, I pulled off my scarf, and wrapped it around his neck. Then stuck my hat on top of his head. “Your ears are gonna get cold, that’s all.”

“Oh, ha-ha, thanks,” Peter chuckled, embarrassed. Scratching the back of his head, he turned and jumped, using a nearby fire hydrant to boost himself up to the top of a signpost. Looking down at me, he shivered in the thickening snowfall and called, “Just tell Aunt May I’m studying with Ned, okay? I’ll be back before dinner.”

“You better!” I called back, walking backwards to see him off. “Don’t make a liar out of me, Maverick!”

“I won’t, I promise!” Spider-Man replied, rising to stand on what seemed like the impossibly narrow edge of the post. He gave me a quick salute, “See you later, Goose!”

Giving a salute back, I watched as Spider-Man took a flying leap off the post and swung off, disappearing into the white haze of the storm.

 

* * *

# ✮✮✮

* * *

Valentine’s Day was as much as a nightmare as I expected; thankfully, everyone was so wrapped up in the holiday that anyone who didn’t know it was my birthday didn’t bother with me.

I suppose the idea itself wasn’t so bad. I wasn’t big on romance, but I could still appreciate people wanting a socially acceptable way to  show affection. High school absolutely made it worse, though; I couldn’t shake the feeling of competition the students had between each other, who got the most valentines. Boys and girls both, who got the most flowers, the most cards, the most gifts. Who bought the most obnoxiously expensive gift (Flash Thompson, of course), and who was the oh-so-lucky recipient (Sally Avril, who was already taken). It just made me want to bang my head against the wall. Even if I wasn’t already mildly averse to showing any kind of vulnerable emotion, turning love into a competition definitely didn’t help.

Peter, still pining for Liz Allen, sent her an anonymous gift, a flower with a card, a nice poem attached. I actually got to hear her read it aloud, as she and I were in the same homeroom class; wondering if Peter actually wrote the poem himself, I had to ignore MJ gagging in the background.

Ned surprised us when he got a few anonymous valentines of his own, though he suspected one of them to be from his mother. He made everyone’s day by bringing in cupcakes.

For most of the day I stood in solidarity with MJ in never having received any Valentines (which MJ was _especially_ proud of), right up until I got a phone call right before last period in the hallway, and had to duck into a stairwell to answer. Personal phone calls during class time was cause for detention, if Strickland caught you. Normally I wouldn’t, but this case was special. I had recognized the Caller ID immediately; there was no way I could ignore this call.

Cupping my hand over my mouth, I whispered into the receiver, hoping not to be overheard. “ _Dmitri!_ You know you can’t call me at school.”

“Ach!” Dmitri said, and I heard a burst of tinny feedback through the phone. Sounded like he’d just smack his forehead. “ _Sorry, it is evening here, I forget the time difference. Did I get you in trouble?_ ”

“No,” I replied, glancing over my shoulder into the emptying hallway, and ducked under the steps for better cover. My voice echoed up and down the stairwell; maybe it wasn’t the best choice for a clandestine phone call. “I’m fine for now. So what’s up? Did something happen?”

He laughed at that. “ _Nothing happened. I just wanted to tell you с Днем рожденья. I’m not too late, am I?_ ”

“Oh,” I dropped my head against the wall, feeling silly now for thinking there had to be a problem for Dmitri to call like this. I’d forgotten it was my own birthday. I had to fight both a blush and a smile growing on my face. “N-no, you’re right on time. Just surprised me, that’s all. Спасибо.”

“ _You’re welcome. I just wish I could be there_ ,” Dmitri sighed. “ _I’ll be back in March, though, I think. Or whenever my father has business in America…_ ”

As he continued to speak I heard footsteps behind me. Turning around, I saw Peter by the doorway, waving frantically at me. We had Biology together; he must’ve come looking for me when I hadn’t showed. Class had already started. Grimacing, I turned back around and spoke quickly, interrupting him. “Sorry, Dmitri! I have to go. But when you come back, we’ll hang out, yeah?”  
  
“ _Yes_!” Dmitri’s reply was enthusiastic, and he made no complaint about the interruption. “ _Yes, I would like that very  much. Can I still call you?_ ”  
  
“Of course. Just not during school hours.”

“ _Right, right…_ ”  
  
With that, we said our goodbyes and I hung up, spinning around to face Peter again. He had a funny look on his face. And by that, I mean a shit-eating grin that only spelt trouble. Frowning as I stuffed my phone away, I said, “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” he said, sticking his hands in his pockets and shrugging. “Just think its funny how excited you get when you talk in Russian.”

“I wasn’t talking in Russian. I was talking to Dmitri.”

“I know.” Peter laughed, and I followed him and this troubling conversation out into the hallway. “You were talking _in_ Russian _to_ Dmitri. You only do that when you two are alone.”

“How would you know that if we were alone?” I demanded, forgetting to deny it. So what, I liked talking to Dmitri, and Russian just came naturally with him. It also came in handy when my previously-assumed private conversations were apparently being eavesdropped by little spiders.

“Uhh, don’t worry about it,” Peter said, not meeting my eyes, which was all the answer I needed. But the door to the biology room was open, and I only had long enough to punch him in the shoulder before we entered class.

“Glad you could join us, Mia,” Mr. Harrington started, throwing me a reproachful look for being late.

I had the decency to feel ashamed about it and kept my head down, sitting in the back of class and minding own business for the rest of the school day. I still wanted to kick Peter, but I restrained the urge. I had teased him plenty about Liz during lunch.

As bad as Peter was, I still preferred his teasing to Aunt May’s, who brought up Dmitri just the other day while we were making dinner. Peter had been out “studying” again, leaving me and May with some quality girl time together, something that was definitely not as fun as it sounded.

“What about that nice boy you’ve been helping?” Aunt May had suggested in an all-too-light tone. She'd waved her spatula around.

“I’m not tutoring him anymore,” I’d replied. At least, Dmitri hadn’t asked; he’d passed his classes last semester, which in turn helped me pass the ninth grade I missed.

“But you still hang out with him,” Aunt May had pointed out, then wiggled her eyebrows at me and smiled.

I had flushed at that, and quickly looked away. “... S-sometimes.”

More than a few times I had used my spare free hours before curfew with Dmitri, and maybe once or twice came home late because of it. For whatever reason, Aunt May was never too upset when I had that particular excuse. Of course, Dmitri completely charmed her with his good manners and refined accent that one time he visited in January, so maybe I shouldn’t be surprised she was pushing the topic now.

When I got around to telling her what Dmitri was up to — how he was currently in Russia, visiting his dad, thus too far away to come to a birthday party — Aunt May had gotten really sweet and compassionate, consoling me as if that were the worst news. If I hadn’t known any better, I’d say she was more disappointed about Dmitri not coming than I was.

And the only reason for _that_? One less person I had to worry about learning who my dad was. Aside from Peter and Aunt May, _no one_ knew that Steve Rogers was my dad, and I was pretty okay with that.

As of today, I still hadn’t gotten another message from him, text or otherwise.

I didn’t bring this up to Peter or anyone else, because I’d already gotten enough reassurances from the past couple days. _He’s coming, you just have to be patient_. _Stop worrying so much. He wouldn’t miss it for the world_.

As Biology came to an end, I steeled my nerves. Today, I was sixteen years old. It was strange to embrace this fact. Valentine’s Day was distracting, and to me it still felt like only a few months ago I was thirteen, in middle school. How could I be sixteen so soon? I didn’t feel...old enough.  
  
This was in large part thanks to my missing memory; large chunks still just completely gone. I wasn’t sure if they would come back. The past few months had been uneventful and I hadn’t gotten any bad nightmares or flashbacks. A part of me was relieved, and a part of me was scared. What if what I had now was all I’d ever get? There were still so many questions left.

But I had Steve now. If anyone knew what it was like for a super soldier, it would be him. This would be the first birthday we could have together.

Of course he wouldn’t miss it. Why was I worrying so much? I could trust Steve. If anyone, I could trust _Captain America_. I just had to get used to relying on adults again. Nobody could be as perfect as Aunt May, sure, but could I really complain when I had a superhero in the family tree?

As the last bell rang, I smiled to myself. Everything was going to be okay. Everything was going to be fine. I just had to relax, for once in my life.

I was still nervous, but as Peter and I left school that afternoon, it transcended into a more typical excitement. Now that Valentine’s Day was out of the way, my birthday would be in full swing at home.

Aunt May had everything already set up. No cutesy pink and red decorations, but silver and blue balloons and streamers. The kitchen smelled like cake and Peter decided to skip out on being Spider-Man this afternoon to hang out instead. The only guests were Ned and MJ — unlike Liz Allen, I had neither the popularity nor the space to have a full-on birthday bash of a hundred people and spiked punch. But I was fine was with that — I didn’t like loud, cramped places, and I couldn’t get drunk, so…

Still, there was something about today that wasn’t quite right.

The first few hours, I didn’t notice, I was having too much fun with MJ, Ned, and Peter playing Smash Bros.

At first, I thought it might’ve been Steve — still no messages after three days — but that wasn’t it. The thing I couldn’t find went deeper, left a hollow ringing in my chest. I missed Steve, but I didn’t miss him _that_ much.

This wasn’t an emptiness I could fill.

It was when night fell, and the pizza guy came around did it hit me. Mom.

My first birthday without Mom.

My first birthday where she wouldn’t turn off all the lights, wouldn’t walk into the room carrying the cake, singing happy birthday with only the warm light of candles to fill the room. Watching me blow out the candles, and then make me promise not to tell anyone my wish, otherwise it would never come true. She’d be the one who’d order the pizza, a real treat because we rarely ordered out to save on money.

I remember hating how she ate pineapple pizza, and having to share with her sometimes. There wasn’t any pineapple pizza today, and somehow I wanted nothing else right now.

I didn’t say anything. Nor did anyone else. Just laughed along with them as MJ did an uncanny impersonation of Flash Thompson, Aunt May improvised a missing 6 candle by flipping over a 9, and nosy neighbor Mrs. Kleinburg came to check on what all the noise was about and leaving with an insincere happy birthday and a snotty look on her face. She didn’t like kids, and she definitely didn’t like teenagers.

But it was fine. Everything was just fine.

We ate slowly, still waiting. Even as I thought about my mother, my eyes were on the door. Or on my phone. Watching. Just watching for a change.

But it never came.

It was seven when Aunt May sighed under her breath and began lighting the candles. Afterwards, cake would be served, presents opened — the main occasion. She wasn’t going to wait anymore.

And that’s when I knew.

Steve wasn’t here. He wasn’t going to show.

 


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three  
**

# ✮

* * *

I remembered the first conversation I had with Steve.

I could still recall the cold shock that froze my body when I first saw him, standing in our living room. How clammy my skin felt when I shook his hand. Vibrating, with barely constrained intensity, as I sat down opposite him on the couch, my mind racing with a million questions, but my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

Steve himself looked relaxed, elbows on his knees and fingers laced together; impressive, considering Aunt May was practically looming over him, directly behind his seat, and Peter not too far behind _her_. Having their eyes on him, on us, watching, waiting, really didn't help with the anxiety. But at the same time I couldn't ask them to leave just yet. I was too scared of making a mistake.

I remembered the warm light of the afternoon filtering through the curtains, the stuffiness of my winter jacket I was too nervous to remember to take off. A little too warm, maybe, probably wasn't helping me relax. But it was fine.

It felt like a dream.

"I guess I don't really have to explain myself why I'm here," was the way Steve opened up the conversation. He tilted his head, as if he knew Aunt May was staring holes into his back. "Or who — what I am."

"N-no, no," I shook my head, brow furrowing and glancing up to meet Aunt May's eyes. Her gaze connected with mine, and held it for a moment, before I raised my eyebrows and she jolted a little.

"Right! I'll make us some tea!" she piped up with a grin, although it didn't quite reach up to her eyes, behind those glasses. She puttered off to the kitchen, yanking an idling Peter along with her.

He complained in a whisper. "But I want to listen —"

" — Peter, not now —"

"— But its Captain — !"

" _I know who it is_."

My gaze slipped back to Steve, and my voice was a little frail. "It's really you, isn't it?"

He chuckled, shoulders shaking a little. "The one and only, I suppose. Hm. But I guess I'm not the only one anymore, am I?"

There was a joking tone to it, but my focus was back on Aunt May, fearing she heard it. I didn't say anything in reply. It was one thing for Aunt May to know Steve Rogers was my dad. It was another for her to know I was a super soldier on top of it all. Or, hell, a vigilante hero.

Steve blinked, waiting for a response that never came. I couldn't even give him a facial reaction, and eventually he cleared his throat and continued, "Well, it's good to see you have a nice home, Ame — Mia. Good, er, good family."

I managed a tight smile at that, at least. "Yeah. Aunt May's the best. And that's Peter —"

"HELLO." Peter called from the kitchen, as if just waiting for his cue. He was still in his winter coat and hat, watching avidly from behind the counter, leaning over it to announce: "I'm Petker! I mean, Parter! _I mean,_ Peter Parker! Nice to meet you, Cap — Mr. Rogers — uh, Steve! Steve? Or maybe..."  
  
Peter was working himself up trying to find the right address, and Steve turned in his seat with a laugh. "No worries. You can call me Steve, too, Pete."

The grin that brightened on Peter's face just then could have lit a thousand cities. He only laughed nervously in response, apparently giddy with speechlessness, before quickly turning around, looking as though he was about to faint.

Steve turned back to me and I was flushed on Peter's behalf. Deep down, my reaction was a lot like his, but my fear had me frozen into a block of repressed expression. I was having trouble remembering how to emote.

At least Steve was smiling. Maybe he didn't notice. "Well, it seems you have a good place here, Mia. Your Aunt May tells me you're doing well in school. Especially history?"

"Yeah!" I said too fast, too loud. Then I blinked, falling back in my seat, wondering why I was being so weird. Shaking my head, I pushed the thoughts away before it made an awkward pause. "It's just, you know, wondering what life was like back then. And it's easy. Memorizing facts instead of having to understand things like _subtext_ or _hidden themes_. It's all just out there. Usually."

Before I was even done speaking I already hated the way I sounded — like this was an interview, not a conversation, and I had to justify myself to an employer and not my...dad. My hands were working knots in my lap, shoulders hunching up as I struggled to come up with something that didn't feel fake.

"Huh. Interesting." The way Steve tilted his head a little, as if he could sense it, made me even more self-conscious. The short response was just the cherry on top. Had I already killed the conversation before it even started?

I floundered in silence for a moment, squeezing my eyes shut and deciding to give it another shot. I didn’t want him to have the wrong impression of me, even if it meant over-correcting. “I just, I don’t know. It’s not... _easy_ for me to learn. I don’t know what May told you, but I’ve got dyslexia and this other thing that makes it hard for me to write — its not that I _can’t_ read, but I’m always struggling with it and sometimes I wonder why I even bother with history at all. It’s nothing _but_ reading. But I don’t know, I’m just curious, and it’s worth the struggle. I guess, for me, history’s about understanding how we got here. What makes the world I live in now, the world that made me who I am.”

Oh.

Steve’s eyebrows went up, but he didn’t say anything right away. I already knew, too late, just how loaded my words were. Did he think I was being passive aggressive? I hadn’t even meant it that way — my attempt to fix things just made it worse, in my mind’s eye. I waited, with a flinch, watching Steve open his mouth and —

“Here we go!” Aunt May swooped in with two mugs, one for the both of us. The smell of coffee was mildly comforting, even if I didn’t like the taste. The big  smile and probing eyes gaze from Aunt May, not so much. She straightened, clapping her hands together. “So! Anything else I can get you guys?”

Her enthusiasm was met with polite-but-reserved refusals — Steve was already sipping his coffee and I just grabbed my mug and held it in my lap. I had tea instead of coffee, but I wanted to give my hands something to do. Aunt May hovered for an extended moment, waiting with a disconcerting amount of nervous energy, before she piped, “Okay! Well, if you need anything, I’ll just be over... there.”

And with that, scurried back to the kitchen to observe from afar with Peter.

Highly aware of being watched, it distracted me enough that I almost didn’t catch Steve’s next words.

“Well, I can appreciate that, not everyone has a love for history,” Steve said, which made me feel better about my stupid response. “Aunt May also told me you go to Midtown, that you skipped ahead two years of school? From the sound of it, I never would’ve guessed you had dyslexia.”

"I also aced my finals last semester," I added, with just a hint of pride. Despite the catastrophe that was Christmas, I got home to discover that all my studying paid off, and I was officially on the sophomore track. This semester, I was no longer behind everyone else in my grade.

"Oh, well then." He chuckled. "If you don't mind me saying, Mia, you seem a little young to be so accomplished."

"And aren't you a little old to be alive?" I retorted before I could stop myself — for whatever reason, my brain had interpreted the obvious compliment as a slight against my age, or my appearance, and fired off before I had a chance to course-correct.

I knew I was screwed before I heard Aunt May inhale sharply through her nose, or Peter slapping his forehead. At that, Steve had done a double-take, his smile dropping. He leaned forward, as if to get up, to leave, and I panicked. Rushing to apologize as fast as I could, I nearly spilled my mug when I quickly sat up, spluttering, "Sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean it like —"

Honestly, if I had backpedaled any faster I would've left a Mia-shaped hole in the wall behind me. "Jesus, I don't even know why I said that —"

But instead of getting up, Steve threw his head back and laughed, quickly setting down his mug and slapping his knee. "Ha! It's fine, it's fine, Mia. I guess I walked right into that one, huh?"

I almost forgot how to breathe, then started to laugh a little, too. For a hot second there, my soul was _this close_ to vacating my skin. I slumped back in my seat, my laughter more for catching my my breath than anything else.

It was only then I wondered if the compliment wasn't just a compliment. Was Steve referring to Rebel Columbia as one of my 'accomplishments'? My laughter flitted away. He had to know. He just had to. But there was no way I could address it in front of Aunt May.

"Hey, you feel like going for a walk?" Steve asked suddenly, as if reading my mind. Maybe he could, I didn't know. I was ready to believe anything about him or super soldiers at this point. He was already standing up, making a show of stretching his back and making a face. "I've been itching for some fresh air myself…"

"Oh, hell yeah!" Relieved, I practically jumped out of my seat at the mere idea. Anything to get out of here and leave my embarrassment behind.

"A-are you guys sure?" Aunt May called, apparently surprised by this sudden development. I was too, but she looked far more dismayed (ha), maybe even disappointed. I couldn't tell what Peter was thinking because he had his face pressed down into the counter. Overwhelmed by schadenfreude, perhaps, over my previous gaffe.

"Yep!" I called, breezing past Steve and being the first one out the front door. I hadn't even taken my coat off.

No time like the present.

I actually felt a lot better when we were outside. Although it seemed like I lost my safety net without Aunt May there, I could feel a distinct lack of tension as I ambled down the street, keeping pace with Steve.

"Sorry about that... back there. I hope I didn't catch you at a bad time."

"N-no, no! You're fine, it's just… surprising, that's all. I didn't think it'd actually happen, I guess."

It was a good day to be outside — clear skies and cheerfully thick snow, a lack of mud or slush that would normally make walks like this unpleasant. Red cardinals popped back and forth in the bare treetops overhead, the bright bursts of color welcome against the pale colors of winter. I felt much more comfortable, my body temperature returning to normal (which, admittedly, was ten lower than 97 degrees). Steve himself was wearing a thick Carhartt jacket and a baseball cap, which I guess was what went for disguises these days. But who was I to judge? I wasn't even hiding my face.

"Well, when Tony told me what happened in Florida, I didn't think I had much of a choice. I had to see for myself." Steve replied, in a somewhat jovial manner, but there was an added weight to those words. _What happened_. I remained silent, hands stuffed in my pockets. I felt his gaze shift back to me. "She doesn't know, does she? Your aunt."

I shook my head, unable to look up from the pavement.

"And your cousin? Peter?"

I debated a long moment how to answer that. It seemed easier to explain that I had told Peter about the truth because he first told me about Spider-Man, but I couldn't break that secret. I didn't know how much Tony Stark actually told Steve, and figured it'd be best to play it safe. So I just said, "He knows."

"You trust him?"

 _Now_ I looked back at Steve, meeting his eyes. "With my life."

I didn't expect Steve to smile, but he did. Just a small quirk of the lips, pleased. "Good. It's hard to find that, nowadays."

"What? Friends?"

"Honesty." Steve replied. "Trust. You'd be surprised how rare it is, especially in my line of… well, never mind. I'm glad you have someone like that."

"Me, too," I agreed, although I wondered what he had meant to say. His line of work? What was that? I assumed he meant being an Avenger, and it sounded odd; there were only six Avengers, did he not trust them all? That seemed counterproductive. But then again, the last Avenger I met was on the verge of a panic attack, and the ones before that tried to shoot me.

In my head I couldn't help compare Steve to Tony Stark, the other Avenger I had the pleasure of getting to know (a little too well). While Tony was loud and energetic and had anxiety like a bag of cats, Steve was reserved, and far less expressive. I found it difficult to read him, and wondered why no one ever mentioned that poker face in the history books. It was a little intimidating, but at the same time, I appreciated it. Getting that smile meant a lot, at least to me.

"So, like," I pursed my lips, deciding to get in a question of my own. "Is this how you usually do it? Hide in plain sight? I can't believe no one's recognized you yet."

"More or less," Steve replied with a shrug, tipping his hat a little forward, like a salute. There was a glint of mischief in his eye as he said, "And not very often, to be honest. I just keep my head down, mind my business, and I'm mostly left alone. I think people recognize the suit more than they do the face. Which is fine by me. I enjoy the privacy."

"Oh, me, too." I felt a little stupid for not coming up with a snappier reply, but at least it was the truth. I was relieved that I probably wouldn't recognized as taking a walk with Captain America. It boggled my mind that people just wouldn't notice him passing on the street, he was so tall, and had this _presence_ about him, calm with just the faintest aura of power. I mean, jeez, the broad shoulders alone should catch some eyes, draw attention, and yet here we were: walking down towards the park and not a single person we passed ever stopped or did a double-take.

"It's cool, though," I added, still mulling it over to myself. "No one ever told me you had the power of invisibility."

That got a laugh, and I beamed, proud of earning it. Steve stuffed his hands in his pockets and said, "Well, don't tell Tony that, or he'd never stop complaining. But I appreciate the notion. It's… not easy sometimes. I don't have walls of money to hide behind like Stark does."

"That's okay," I wasn't sure what he meant by that, to be honest, glancing up as a garbage truck went by. Its roar drowned out any sound for a moment, so I waited before saying, "I know being seen with me probably wouldn't be the, er, the best. For you. I mean. Personally, um, I don't really want anyone to know about you. Not that it bothers me! But I just... well, you already know, with Peter. I just... I like the privacy, too."

Well, after that word vomit I was ready for the ground to swallow me right up. What was with me today, screwing up with whatever I said? The anxiety made my hands tingle with cold, regardless of the weather. _Be normal. God, just be normal._

I thought I would be met with a rebuke. Instead, Steve rubbed the back of his neck and said, "I understand. It's part of that whole 'trust' thing... if too many people know, or the wrong ones, then any sense of privacy is going to be, well. History."

He chuckled at this last bit, but the look he gave me was reassuring. And something else I couldn't decipher. "I don't want you to have that kind of trouble, that's all. No one has to know you don't want them to."

"Well, I haven't gotten any, so far," I said, nodding — mostly to myself. It was good to know but I had a feeling maybe he was holding back. Then my brow furrowed and I snapped back to look at him. "You did that on purpose, didn't you? Leaving the apartment, so we could talk like this?"

"Just figured that out, did you?" Steve replied, and back was the mischief, the tiny quirk of smile. "I hoped I was subtle. Your Aunt has the eyes of a hawk. She looked ready to carve out my liver when I first introduced myself at her door — but at least she was polite about it."

"Yeah, she's like that," There was no doubt in my mind that Aunt May would kill a man to protect me or Peter. Which contributed me to not telling her the truth sooner.

And not about Rebel Columbia at all.

I chewed my lip for a moment. We came out here to talk freely, so I might as well take the opportunity. Still, I was nervous, and not just because I was talking to Captain America. Glancing around, I made sure no one was close by to eavesdrop before I spoke, "W-what's it like? I mean, being a super soldier. I-I don't really know anything about what happened to me, and I noticed I'm still growing, and I was just wondering, just what it's like. If — _when_ I'm older."

I breezed past that falter as quick as I could before Steve could notice, or so I hoped.

I got lucky. Steve heaved a deep sigh, and I knew I was in for a hard answer.

"I don't mean to disappoint you," He started, and my stomach fell. "But disregarding that time under ice, I've only been a super soldier for about as long as you. I honestly don't have a clue what's going to happen five, ten years out. Or longer."

"Oh," I had to keep myself from making a face. "Yeah, I guess that makes sense. I'm just...maybe I'm just scared, that's all."

"I'm sure you'll be fine," he offered kindly, and it did sound as reassuring as he meant it. He gestured to me, somewhat jokingly, "I mean, just look at you. Almost as tall as me. By the end of it you might even be taller."

"I wouldn't mind that." I grinned as we came to a stop at a crosswalk.

"Hey!" Steve punched me lightly on the arm, and we laughed a little — me, too stunned to do anything else, because _Steve Rogers just punched me on the arm._ Like we were buddies. Like I was his kid. The crossing sign blinked on and I jumped ahead onto the street.

My heart skipped a beat, giddy and pleased, and I had to bite my lip to keep it from getting away from me. The laughter died into a short silence as we made our way across the street. Our footsteps disturbed a flock of pigeons gathered on the street and they flew away at our passing. Our house, the apartment building, was somewhere behind us; I wondered if Aunt May was watching us right now, through the windows. I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder to check, but I had the distinct feeling of being watched nonetheless.

If Steve had the same feeling, he didn't let on. Instead, he was the first to break the silence, beginning hesitantly. "I just want you to know…"

He paused, cleared his throat, and tried again.

"I just want you to know," Steve spoke more slowly as we crossed into the park. Our footsteps crunched softly on the salted sidewalks, and a chilly breeze blew over the crystallized field of snow. "That I'm here, if you need me. Not that you do! But I understand if you, er, prefer I stay uninvolved."

"No! It's okay. I-I want you to be...involved."

"Well, I'm glad. I want to be, too. I just don't want you to think you couldn't have a normal life because of me."

I almost snorted. Ship _sailed_ on that possibility. But I bit my tongue. I did appreciate the gesture, though; right now I was just still searching for my new normal, trying to figure out how I fit in. With Steve here, it only reminded me of the deal I'd broken with SHIELD, with Coulson, and the fact I'd _still_ hadn't seen hide nor hair of them. Were they mad that I broke out as Rebel Columbia again? Were they going to take me in, as Coulson had implied? I didn't want to be a part of SHIELD, but I knew it had been a strong likelihood when I made my choice last Christmas.

So it was a surprise when it never came to be. Now I was just paranoid. _What was Coulson waiting for?_ Had he just forgotten? Or did they have bigger fish to fry?

"Normal is good," I said finally, then a thought occurred to me and I snickered to myself. Steve threw me a curious look, and I cut myself off, a little embarrassed. "Oh, uh, when I first told Peter, he said that I might get lucky and live with the Avengers, in their tower. Just this sort of... fun fantasy life. It was, I don't know, hit me just now. You don't live at Avengers Tower, do you?"

In the interim between Christmas and now, Tony Stark had unofficially unveiled the new plans for his former company tower — the remodeling and construction would be focused to creating a central hub for the Avengers and associated parties. The exterior was already finished; we could see the bright white neon Avengers logo from the park, it was that impressive.

And I'd seen the inside. It wasn't a bad place to live. A little lax in security maybe... but not a bad place.

Steve laughed at the notion, shaking his head. "Ha! No, no, I live down in DC. It's close to my, ah, work. But I don't think anyone of us actually _lives_ up in the Tower. Not even Tony. We all have our own places to be."

"Well, good. I'd had have to move again, especially downtown Manhattan. The traffic there is awful."

"Oh, you don't have to tell me," Steve said, smiling. "Have you always lived here?"

"No," I started, then shook my head. "I mean, yes, but not in Queens. I grew up in Hell's Kitchen. With my mom."

 _Mistake_. As soon as I said that, I winced. The silence that dropped after that sentence almost triggered my fight-or-flight response, it was that sudden and gut-clenching.

_Oh shit, oh shit. Why did I say that, why did I say that, what's he going to say…_

At least we didn't stop walking, continued to move in silence; I had to fight the overwhelming urge to run. Run far away, from that question, from the truth I could already guess at. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, turned around to study a face I was already starting to learn I couldn't read. Steve's face was canted to the ground, an expression flickering across his face, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunching incrementally.

The silence went on. Only our footsteps in the crisp winter air filled the space between us.

I worked my jaw. Didn't he think I wanted to know?

"I, ah…" Steve finally looked up at me, his face pained, a wince, not able to meet my eyes for more than a second, before slipping away.

My own eyes were focused on a bush behind him. "You don't remember her, do you?"

"... No. I'm sorry."

I heaved a sigh through my nose, not surprised but still disappointed. A part of me knew that was going to be his answer, but a part of me still believed that it could be different. That my own doubts could be washed away, and I wouldn't have to worry about if he was really my dad anymore.

And maybe. Maybe I was hoping he could tell me about Mom. Just something I'd never heard before, something that brought her back to life, even for a moment.

But that was gone, too.

"It's... fine," I said at length. A dirty, dirty lie. I tried to play it off, though; I didn't want Steve to see how much it bothered me. We had a good thing going for a moment there, and now I regretted bringing this topic up at all — I thought it had been better, before I asked, before I knew for sure. "I guess I just wished I understood… what happened. And you're the only one left who can tell me."

"I know," he said. "Trust me, I have just as many questions as you. I don't — I'm not sure what's really going on, to be honest. If you don't mind me asking, where's your mom now?"

"Dead." I replied, before I could think about how that came off. Too blunt, too factual. Welp. Too late now. I forged ahead before I could start overthinking, overfeeling; just thinking about this again, I could feel something inside turning off, and in turn my own voice sounded hollow, automated. "Mom, um, she was there during the Incident. Our old building was destroyed, and she... she didn't make it."

It was as sentimental as I could make it without my own emotions coming back to sucker punch me in the gut. My hands clenched and I stuffed them in my coat pockets, doing my best to remain composure.

"A-ah," Steve said, and I could feel him sagging next to me. Of course, he was there, too. He fought against the aliens; his whole job was to protect everyone. "God, I didn't know, Mia. I'm sorry, I wish I could've —"

"I'm not blaming you!" I didn't mean to chuck the guilt train at him, but whoops, there we go. "I don't blame anyone. I'm just… I don't know, it happened a while ago, but it still feels really new to me. A lot of stuff feels new to me." I scanned the park in a panic, trying to think of a way to save this conversation, something positive to say. Squinting my eyes a little, I blue-screened for a moment, before I finally managed to say, "If it means anything, I think she would've liked you. I mean, she never told me anything and I don't really know why, but I don't see why she'd hate you. You seem, er, you seem really nice."

"Well, you seem nice, too, Mia," Steve said, and he seemed to relax a little, chuckling. I resisted the urge to fist pump. Mission accomplished. "I am glad we got a chance to finally meet, even if it didn't necessarily...go as planned. And now Stark can stop holding this over both our heads."

That got me to laugh again. And like that, the tension finally eased.

* * *

# ✮✮✮

* * *

I couldn't help thinking about it now, sitting in the dark in my bedroom. It was easier on my eyes after all the bright, intense light of the kitchen. It'd only been a few hours, but I still needed a break. Maybe, when I walked out again, Steve would already be there, laughing and getting along with everybody.

By all accounts, it was a good memory, and one I liked to think back on, for the most part. As far as introductions went, it was a lot better than Tony Stark's (that had been an almost literal nightmare).

But I remembered the disappointment I felt when my mother came up, and it felt a lot like what I was feeling now. Just an expectation, a hope, a doubt I wanted to be proved wrong. Telling myself I should've known better, that I _did_ know better, but still held onto that shred of idealism because I was an idiot.

 _It's just a birthday, it's not the end of the world_. I tried to rationalize, stamp down on the emotions I was feeling. I was overreacting, wasn't I? It seemed like it. I didn't like feeling emotions. At least not these emotions. It didn't happen a lot and I didn't want to get used to them.

"Mia?"

The door creaked open and I looked up, seeing Aunt May's silhouette in the doorway. "Sweetie? What are you doing on the floor, in the dark? You're missing the party."

"Oh, I'm," I wasn't even doing anything, just sitting there with my legs splayed out, a lump on a log. I struggled to find a way to explain this. "Just… taking a nap."

"A nap, huh," Aunt May said, with the look of someone who knew better, a sort of half-smile. A little too pitying for my taste, but I was feeling too sorry for myself to really complain. "Well, he won't show up any faster whether you're in here or out there. And out there looks like a lot more fun."

I could hear the sounds of _Smash Bros_ through the doorway, the sound of Ned achieving banana peel superiority once again, and it was sure tempting. But my spiteful half didn't want to give Aunt May the satisfaction that I could be enjoying myself at all when I didn't get the one thing I wanted.

"Yeah." I said, shrugging halfheartedly. "I think I'm being a brat."

"Hmm," Aunt May stepped in, coming to sit on the rug next to me. The moonlight glinted off her glasses, but her smile was no less warm. She put a hand on my shoulder, rubbing my back. "You only just turned sixteen, and you missed two years of being a kid, so I think there's still some brattiness you have to catch up on. I just don't want you to be alone just waiting for something. I don't want you to waste your time moping, you'll only be more disappointed. I know it doesn't fix things, but having fun at least takes your mind off of it. Today's your day, after all. I'd say you earned it. Just give yourself a break, Mia. Please."

I stewed on this, chewing my lip and studying my fingers in my lap. It sure was very satisfying to wallow in misery; a certain self-righteousness to it. But Aunt May was right, I wasn't going to feel better eventually doing this. Things weren't just going to turn around in my favor by pouting around and waiting for fate to pull me a solid. My karma was not good enough for that to happen.

I heaved a sigh, and Aunt May's hand dropped away. "I guess you're right. Steve doesn't need to be here, I just —"

A distant growl of an engine cut me off, muffled through the window, but I knew the sound immediately. A motorcycle driving up the street, coming to a stop. It hadn't even shut off yet before I was on my feet, saying, "It's him!"

I thought I heard a sound of disappointment from Aunt May, but I was already out the door.


	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four  
**

# ✮

* * *

 

There came a knock on the door — Steve already had a key, and according to Aunt May he was always welcome. Nevertheless, each time he arrived, he always knocked three times before letting himself in. Maybe it was his way of being polite, introducing himself so none of us would be alarmed.

It was familiar, and it was safe.  

“Sorry I’m late,” Steve began, closing the door behind him with a sheepish laugh. When his eyes landed on me, however, the  smile slipped off his face. “I got, er, held up at...work...again…”

He was wearing one of those thick brown leather jackets with the wool collars, cheeks pink from his long ride. Not a lot of people would take a motorcycle from DC to New York in the dead of winter, but Steve wasn’t like a lot of people. Frost had accumulated on his shoulders and boots, which were brushed off by Aunt May when she puttered by.

“I don’t see why you can’t just take the train,” she said, clucking her tongue.

“It’s perfectly fine, ma’am,” Steve chuckled a little, shifting as Aunt May removed his jacket and hung it up. “The cold doesn’t bother me much. And I enjoy the drive.”

“Hm,” Aunt May narrowed her eyes a little, but didn’t comment, as if she were biting back works. Maybe _but the train would’ve been faster_. Whatever it was, she just shook her head to herself, “Well, I suppose you and Mia have _that_ much in common…”

From the living room, I heard Peter shout, “Hey, Mia’s dad is here! Come on!”

A stampede of feet later and Peter, Ned and MJ gathered directly behind me, so fast they nearly knocked me forward off my feet. When Steve turned to look around in surprise, I heard two sharp intakes. Ned and MJ, seeing him for the first time. Peter standing next to them, quietly vibrating with increasing intensity, as if trying to contain the mischievous smile growing on his face. He couldn’t hold it, and Ned punched him in the shoulder, hissing, “You _knew_ , jerk?”

Steve glanced between the four of us, leaning back just a smidge. Maybe I should’ve given him a warning how excitable some of my friends could be. Ned, at least, was definitely on the pro-Avengers side of things. “Oh, hey, guys. Like I said earlier, sorry I’m late. Got caught in this huge traffic jam down on the Jersey Turnpike —”

“It’s fine!” I blurted, too fast. I felt a little stupid, standing in front him with the other three, like a class of expectant grade-schoolers. Just a little on the robotic side, I managed to introduce them, “This is Ned and MJ, they’re our friends, and they’re, uh…” I glanced over my shoulder, receiving looks of either confusion or excitement. “You can trust them. They won’t tell, _right_?”

I put extra emphasis on this, with a hard look so they’d get it. Ned jolted a little, while MJ returned it with a sly smirk. “Oh, yeah, my lips are sealed, Mr. Rogers. My friends call me MJ, but you can call me Michelle.”

Aside from Steve actually showing up, my biggest worry had been how Ned and MJ would react to it. I wasn’t necessarily ashamed of it, it was a secret for a reason and I was ready to explain myself if need be; rather, it was whether or not if they’d like Steve. MJ? She was a total wild card to me. Sometimes she got along great with adults; others she bullied relentlessly. I didn’t take Steve as the type to be bullied by a sixteen-year-old wise guy but that didn’t mean MJ wouldn’t try. What if she didn’t like him because of the time he came from, or the fact he’s with the Avengers, who aren’t without their problems?

And then there was Ned. Ned, I wasn’t worried about having a negative reaction. He loved the Avengers. He thought Captain America was cool (not as cool as Iron Man, but still). But that was a problem in and of itself. MJ, I could trust to keep a secret like this. But would Ned feel the need to tweet this to his seventeen followers? One of whom was his mom?

Maybe it was too soon to say. They still seemed to be in a bit of shock.

Steve regarded MJ with a slight furrow of his brow. “Ah, nice to meet you, too... Michelle.”   

“I _did_ say they would be here,” I added, reading the hesitation on Steve’s face and got worried, doubting myself. I had, hadn’t I? Ned I wasn’t too worried about, but MJ could be off-putting to some people and I didn’t want it to throw off Steve. “In my texts?”

I left out the part that he never ended up replying to them. Still, it seemed to jog Steve’s memory, and he snapped his fingers. “You’re right! I remember now. Sorry, it’s been a long day. I hope I didn’t miss too much?”

“You’re actually just in time!” Peter said, gesturing for Steve to follow him into the living room. The TV set was turned on and set to a brightly colored channel — it took me a moment to recognize the video game music playing from the speakers. “Ned brought Mario Kart and we’re trying to see who gets the high score. Which is me, by the way. Do you want to try?”

“C’mon, Pete, that’s not fair,” Ned said, following him. “Captain America’s probably never even played a video game! Now you want him to try the Wii? That’s cruel and unusual punishment.”  
     
“Hey now,” Steve laughed, rubbing the back of his head as he came over to sit on the couch. “Let the old man have his shot first. This is one of them video game things, right? I think Tony showed me a few before…”

I perched myself on the armrest as Peter and Ned fussed over the controllers, before showing them to a mildly baffled Steve; he seemed to follow along well enough, though, laughing a little when the other three promised to go easy on him; there were only four controllers, and with Steve hailing the last one, it left me in the background to watch.

I didn’t really notice I was going antisocial at first; I was too busy enjoying myself, watching as Steve struggled to learn the controls, as MJ drove donuts around his character. Between relentless bananas and thrown shells (turns out they lied about going easy on him), Steve ended up dead last. At least it had been a quick race.

He then proceeded to lose the next three games. Clearly enjoying beating the crap out of him, Ned asked idly, “So how long have you been in the 21st century, Mr. Rogers?”

“About two years, why?”

“Oh, no reason. Just figured you’d, you know, have a better grasp on modern technology,” As awed as Ned was of the Avengers, he took full advantage of the chance to throw a little shade Steve’s way. He offered a grin, just to show he didn’t mean it.

“Well, I’ve got a lot to learn, Ned,” Steve replied, his eyebrows quirking slightly — almost annoyed, I thought, but probably more amused than anything else. Steve returned Ned’s grin, just as his character took out Ned’s kart with an expertly shot blue shell, and leaving him in the dust. “But I’m catching up.”

Ned was left spluttering in surprise, the rest of us laughing as Peter and MJ overtook him as well. But Peter and MJ, too, stopped laughing, when Steve was suddenly dodging their bananas, cutting them off on sharp turns, gaining stars and shooting shells and in the following minute, had won first place.

Steve then proceeded to slay them in the following two races; even Peter, with his superior reflexes, was starting to scowl with concentration. At one point he piped up, “I thought you said you never played video games before, Mr. Rogers?”

“Oh, I’ve played plenty of video games, Peter,” Steve said blithely, far too innocent. He glanced at me and winked. “You just didn’t ask.”

I smiled back, and MJ threw up her arms as she fell off the rainbow bridge road, knocked off for the third time by a savage shell move by Steve.

As the evening wore on, however, I felt something sinking in my chest. A lack of energy, enthusiasm. I thought Steve coming here would make me excited, cheer me up — but it seemed to have achieved the exact opposite.

I watched from the far seat as Steve continued to beat Peter, Ned, and MJ at their own game. As funny as it was, I couldn’t bring myself to really enjoy the moment, just watched with a half-hearted smile, cheek resting on fist. More often than not, my attention shifted to MJ’s bottle cap bracelet, which I played with to get the satisfying _clik-clak_ sound out of. Peter asked if I wanted a turn, but I denied every time.

I could see it in his eyes. Peter knew I wasn’t happy, still; the way his brow furrowed, the glance between me and Steve. But Peter didn’t say anything. I was glad for that.

It was around 10:30 when Aunt May came around to tell Ned and MJ it was time for them to go home; very late (by her standards), their rides had showed up, and as disappointed as they were to stop playing Mario Kart with Captain America, I could see the slump in their shoulders that they were a bit relieved, too. Steve had not let up on them, not once, since he won that first game. Peter, too, was yawning. I couldn't remember the last time he struggled so much with a video game.

It wasn’t until they were gone did I realize how much I had been using them as a distraction, and that I hadn’t actually said a thing to Steve for over an hour and a half. Suddenly, the apartment was filled with empty space, silence as the Wii was turned off, and Peter went to go change into pajamas. That left me and Steve, sitting like two awkward ducks in the living room.

“Looks like you’ve got some good friends here,” Steve said at last, and he seemed sincere, even if he came off a little stilted. Too quick to fill in the silence. “That one, Michelle, she doesn’t bully you, does she?”

The question surprised me, and I snorted. “Not as much as she bullies Peter.”

“Oh, good, I was worried I’d have to have a talk with her parents.”

A shared laugh, then it went silent again. Longer this time. I could hear Aunt May shuffling around in the kitchen, clattering of dishes in the sink, the fridge opening and closing. Cleaning up after the party, and no doubt listening to our (failing) conversation. I was happy Steve was here, and at the same time I was suddenly filled with impatience for him to leave. I just didn’t know what to say. A dull resentment was boiling in my gut and I didn’t know how to work around it.

Was I mad he’d spent his time here interacting with my friends more than me? No. I was glad they got all got along. Really glad. It had been a nervous thought at the back of my mind for weeks.

I wondered if Steve was struggling, too. It wasn’t like I was a great conversationalist, and even now I was scrambling to think of something to say. I could feel Aunt May’s presence nearby, a burning gaze telling me to be social, to be nice. How hard could it be? I wasn’t going to get over him being late by just stewing in my own thoughts.

My eyes shifted to the dark windows, the city lights flickering outside. “So how’d work go? You said it was busy, right?”

I knew it probably wouldn’t work. I could never get Steve to talk about his job; I didn’t even know what he _did_ , exactly, which was a red flag in and of itself. He knew this, too, because it wasn’t the first time I’d asked something like that, in the hopes of getting a little inkling of information, a hint at the truth.

Steve seemed to put up with it, though, instead of cutting me off immediately. “Oh, you know, just one of those committee meetings that last forever. My boss, he’s a real, ah — well, he’s very diligent, and kept us in the boardroom all day, discussing…” his sentence drifted for a second, gaze studying the coffee table. “Shipments.”

I blinked. “Shipments.”

“It was a really important meeting.”

“Oh, right, of course,” I nodded along, scoffing a little as if that was the most obvious thing in the world. I was acting far too agreeable to be ingenious. “I can see why you got held up. Shipments are no joke. Can’t skip out a meeting on shipments for anything, right?”

I regretted those words as soon as they came out of my mouth, but it was too late. I didn’t want to be passive aggressive, I hated that quality and I hated being like that to Steve, who was always honest and straightforward with me.

Well, usually.

Now I just sounded like some petulant child, all pouting, unable to understand that sometimes dad can’t make every single one of your birthdays.

Steve winced, catching the edge in my voice. He shook his head and sighed, at least having the decency to look ashamed. “I’m sorry, Mia. I swear I meant to be here on time, but my work, it’s too demanding. I can’t afford to skip out, not even for a day, or even a few hours. It’s not just some chore I can put off and do later.”

Hm. That stung. My facade dropped like a bag of bricks, fake smile disappearing. “Is that what I am, then? Something you can just ‘put off’ until later?”

My tone had gone completely flat, cold and devoid of any emphasis. Even and controlled, not angry, at least. I couldn’t have withdrawn into myself faster.

Steve’s eyes widened, realizing his mistake only too late. “No, wait, that’s not what I meant —”

“Look, if you're too busy, maybe it’s better if you don’t come here anymore,” I interrupted, my fists clenching a little at the sudden pain in my chest. Maybe he meant those words differently but my reaction was immediate, and the hurt too strong to really think it through. I didn’t want to deal with this anymore. It was just...too much. “I don’t want to feel like a inconvenience to you, a chore you have to do each week —“

“No, no, don’t say that, please, I just —“ Steve heaved a big sigh, grimacing. It was clear this conversation was going in a direction neither of us liked. “I’m sorry, Mia. I don’t want to disappoint you. I _want_ to be here. But it’s hard to find time, between the travel and my work, it takes precedence…”

Precedence? I frowned. I knew his work was important, and that I probably shouldn’t feel offended that he put it before me since he’s had it longer, but my curiosity was relentless. “And what is your work, exactly?”

It sounded more critical than I meant. Still, I wasn’t completely surprised when Steve went silent, and bowed his head.

He still couldn’t — or wouldn’t — tell me.

“Come on, please?” I begged, leaning forward with maybe more desperation than I wanted to show. “Can’t you tell me a little bit, at least? Is it government work? Is that why you can’t say anything?”

“Mia, it’s not that I don’t trust you, but I’ve told you before.  I’m just… I’m not at liberty to discuss it with a civilian.”

He _had_ told me before, in those exact words, no less. You’d think with all my effort to _be_ a civilian I’d be pleased that I was considered as one by… whoever Steve worked for. But nah. My pride was still wounded; I wasn’t proud of it, but it was the truth. I just wanted to know what kept him out so long, what had him so busy he couldn’t even reply to my texts or calls. I had no doubt it was important; but _what_ could it be?

What if it wasn’t as important as he said it was? What if it was only important to him, and the only reason he wouldn’t tell me was because he didn’t think I’d see it the same way?

Paranoid thoughts began to fester. It occurred to me that this what it was like being locked out of the superhero loop, being the one who gets secrets kept by them. I didn’t necessarily know exactly if being a super soldier was a part of Steve’s work, but I could guess. And it was strange, being on the other end of this. Usually I was the one keeping secrets, feeling bad I had to hide things from Peter, or Aunt May, or my friends.

Least to say, I had a whole new appreciation for their problems with me.

I heard him say something but didn’t catch it. Looking up, I saw Steve’s expression searching mine. His hands, meanwhile, twisted nervously in his lap. He spoke again. “Do you understand, Mia? If I could tell you, I would. But I can’t. And believe me, I want to spend more time with you, but I just… I’m not sure how to work it out yet.”

“I don’t know either,” I replied quietly; it was the truth. I didn’t know how to fix this, either. Secrecy aside, I didn’t know how Steve could spend more time here. Distance was a factor, as well as his work.

And at this point, a part of me was unwilling to even find a solution anymore.

Another silence fell. Steve hung his head, rubbing his brow. I shifted uncomfortably, but I had no desire to say anything else, and turned my face away, to gloom out the windows.

“Hey, I have an idea!” Aunt May suddenly piped up with a clap of her hands and a big grin, as if she just came to a grand revelation. Her sudden interjection nearly had me falling off my perch; I’d completely forgotten May was even here, had been listening this entire time.

Righting myself, I gazed up as she came to stand behind the couch, smiling with encouragement at us. “Why don’t you two spend Spring Break together? It’s not for another month but I think it’d be nice change, if Mia visits you this time. She’s never been to DC. It can be a real vacation!”

I think my jaw actually dropped a little. Wait, spend _more_ time with him? She might as well just have shot me.

“That’s… actually a great idea.” Steve, however, looked up in surprise, and smiled. “I mean, my place isn’t big, but there’s enough room for you.” He paused, thinking for a moment as his enthusiasm built. “Spring Break is only a week, right? I can… I can get my schedule cleared, so there’s no, ah, interruptions. And we could make a road trip out of it! I’ve never actually been on a road trip.”

He turned this look on me, a sudden optimism in his expression that made my heart lurch a little. “What do you think? We don’t have to if you don’t want to, Mia. It’s up to you.”

Judging from the way Aunt May was sending me the Glare of Doom over his shoulder, it definitely wasn’t.

But what could I say? I wanted to be honest. I didn’t want to go. It sounded like a recipe for disaster. But Aunt May was clearly trying to salvage this situation, and Steve’s enthusiasm only added to the guilt. To me, it just seemed like a lost cause. Our lives were just too at odds to really work. And there was also the not-inconsequential secret I was keeping, which just made me feel worse. I couldn’t consider myself being honest at all if I never brought up my true thoughts about our biological relation.

It was so stupid. My feelings were confusing me, not to mention the external pressure I was also getting. I didn’t want to spend more time with Steve; if I told the truth, I could end it fast, like ripping off a band-aid. Spring Break disaster idea killed before it could even take off the ground.

But deep down, I couldn’t do it. I still wanted Steve to be here. Just not… _here_ here. Or something. Ugh. I was not making this easy for myself. Why couldn’t emotions just make sense for once?

But what other solution was there? I certainly couldn’t come up with anything better (or worse). Doing the same thing we had been doing for the past month definitely wasn’t going to be enough.

I kept my best poker face; otherwise they’d see how much I just didn’t want to try — something else I could say. “... Yeah, sure, why not.”

The grins on both their faces was the real sucker punch to the gut.

It was (slightly) less tense after that, but only because I was stamping down my own feelings on this turn of events. Thankfully, though, Aunt May took the dominant part of the conversation with Steve, distracting him and leaving me to do the dishes — a chore, but one I happily accepted for time to think to myself without any attention.

While Aunt May was no more successful in getting Steve to talk about his work than I was, she did manage to convince him to have a slice of cake, and even stay for the night; being that it was nearing midnight, she rejected any idea of him leaving tonight to get back home to DC. Even Steve was starting to look a little harried by her pressuring, and in the end submitted; tonight, his bed would be the couch, and not a hotel somewhere in Jersey.

As Aunt May went to go fetch extra blankets from the hall closet, I couldn’t help but groan inwardly. Breakfast with Steve tomorrow, I could already feel it. I doubted one night could change my opinion on this whole Spring Break vacation idea.

But at this point I was already settled on the idea, as much as I dreaded it. Short of a nuclear apocalypse, I wasn’t going to get out of this.

The apartment slowly darkened as we settled in for the night, the party cleaned away, the shades drawn and the heat turned up. When I was finished cleaning the kitchens, I gave Steve a quick goodnight before turning down the hallway towards my room.

“Mia, can I talk to you for a moment?” Aunt May’s soft voice came, just before I could step into through the threshold. She was standing by her door, peering out and frowning at me past her glasses. Hair down and loose, bathrobe wrapped around her. Behind her, the rest of the apartment was dark, Steve already settling for sleep. Aunt May’s eyes glimmered in the light emanating from her room.

I paused, my stomach filling with dread. Had I done something wrong? Birthdays were the worst time to get in trouble.

Still, I turned, hands stuffed into the pockets of my hoodie. Shoulders hunched, head down, preparing myself for a lecture, a reprimand.

“I know you’re disappointed,” Aunt May said, her arms folded, brows furrowed. Her voice was soft, so that we wouldn’t be overheard. “I know he’s not what you expected. But you have to understand, I don’t think you’re what he expected, either. This is just as new, and as hard for him as it is for you. He has to learn how to be your dad the same time you’re learning to be his daughter.”

Her words took me by surprise, and I didn’t really know what to say. A part of me understood, deep down, that Steve was probably having a difficult time, too. But hearing it spoken to me? In Aunt May’s soft, wise tones? It left me more than a little shook.

Biting my lip, I looked down. “I-I know.”

“I’m not mad at you.” A soft hand went to my shoulder, and Aunt May continued in a softer tone. “Parenting is a constant challenge, Mia. You think I was playing a stellar mom when we first took Peter in? I wasn’t. I made a lot of mistakes. But I wanted to be better, and I kept trying. And I know Steve is, too. So… promise me you’ll be open-minded when it comes to the D.C. trip?”

I scrunched up my face, reluctant. “Y-yeah, sure. I can try.”

“Good.” Aunt May smiled to me, and as she began turning to the counter, it seemed the conversation was over.

“Aunt May?” But I wasn’t done yet, either. She gave me a curious look and I continued, shifting awkwardly on my feet. “Sorry, I just thought...I thought you’d be more disappointed in him, too. At least that’s what I thought you were, back in my room, before he showed up…”

Aunt May set down her knife, pursing her lips and thinking it over a moment. “I suppose I was. I won’t lie, I haven’t exactly been impressed, either. But he showed me tonight how much he cares, Mia. He’s showing effort, a will to change, and trust me, that’s not as common as you’d think in parents. And I don’t want you growing up without someone to look up to. I think, if this works out, it’d be much better for you both. Do you know what I mean?”

“I-I guess so,” I lied, unable to meet her eyes. All this meant Steve was putting in more effort than I was. That Aunt May believed in it more than I wanted to.

I definitely wasn’t on the winning side, and I didn’t have the confidence or the guts to just tell her what I felt. It was too defeatist. Aunt May would just be disappointed in _me,_ and hoo boy that would be the absolute worst.

“Just checking,” Aunt May said, tilting her head and cupping my cheek. It got me to meet her eyes. “Family isn’t easy, Amelia. It might never be. But I think you’ll end up regretting it if you don’t try.”

Then she leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead. “And Happy Birthday.”

With that, she let me go, and I headed off to bed.

* * *

 

  
art by me :))


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 6/17/19: Changed the dream sequence.

**Chapter Five  
**

# ✮

* * *

When I woke up that next morning, Steve was already gone.

I had been half-dreading, half-hoping he'd still be there, sleeping on the couch, or maybe drinking coffee and watching the morning news. I had no idea what his daily habits were, and today wouldn't be the day I'd find out. Instead, I walked into the kitchen to find the couch empty, the blankets neatly folded and stacked, with a small yellow note left on top.

When I unfolded it, the note read:

 

> _Sorry I couldn't be there when you wake up. Got an emergency work call. Thank you for your hospitality._
> 
> _Happy Birthday, Mia._
> 
> — _Steve_

 

It was written in cursive. And thus, insanely difficult to read with dyslexia, and I got a bit of a headache squinting at the unrecognizable forms for several long minutes.  
  
I sighed and slumped onto the couch. Warm sunlight streamed across the ceiling and I folded and unfolded the note in my hands. The really petty, immature part of me wanted to crumple it up in my fist — but I couldn't. I carefully smoothed out the folds, listened to the crackle of paper. Steve had at least taken the time to leave a message. He was kind and grateful. He wished me a happy birthday.

I opened it up again, studied the sharp, clean strokes of his letters. Clear, evenly spaced, no slant in his lines — military cursive, I thought. Perfect, clean, concise.

And it was the first piece of Steve's handwriting that I'd seen. That I had. I couldn't throw that away.

Such a contrast to my own scrawled, messy, barely legible script. I was both impressed and a little annoyed. Was reading and writing ever as hard for him as it was for me? The most I knew about Steve's past could be learned from the history books; he hadn't told me anything personal about his life before the war, before he woke up in the 21st century.

I wondered why. Maybe he just missed it too much. Maybe he didn't think I'd understand.

"Gone already?" Peter's voice was preamble to him jumping onto the couch from behind. He was in his red flannel pajamas, banana in hand. I hadn't heard him approach. Peter leaned over my shoulder to peek at the note. "What does it say?"

I just handed it to him, thinking it'd be easier for Peter to read it himself than me trying to dictate. "Yeah, I guess he got some emergency work call late last night."

"Hm." Peter made a noncommittal noise as he scanned the note. His silence extended far longer than I expected, and I frowned at him. I could see the gears turning behind his eyes and waited for him to speak — at length, Peter said, "I wonder if he works for SHIELD."

My eyebrows shot up. I had my own working theory that Steve was working for the government, but I hadn't considered that line of thought. "Really?"

Peter met my gaze, head tilting, puzzled by my tone. "You don't think so?"

"I don't know. SHIELD's got this whole 'Big Brother is Watching You' thing going on — doesn't really seem like something Steve would jive with." Then again, I'd only known Steve for two months. Who knew what his real thoughts on SHIELD would be.

"They did come from the SSR, though," Peter pointed out. "The guys he's worked for in World War Two. He can work the same way he used to with them."

"True. But SHIELD isn't the same as the SSR. A lot's changed since 1945."

"He can't be just working for the Avengers. And if the US government were using him, I think he'd get more publicity, like Iron Man." Peter said, shrugging. "Patriotism and all. But whatever he's doing, it never on the news."

I knew what Peter was trying to do. Distract me from the uncomfortable topic of Steve's absence, but not ignoring the elephant entirely. He also presented a legitimately thoughtful argument that definitely had me curious. I couldn't help but smirk a little — Peter knew me too well.

"Don't suppose you'll come with us to DC, to find out," I suggested, my tone joking but resigned. I already knew Peter wouldn't be able to join me.

"I wish," Peter grinned, elbowing me in the side. "But there's no way Aunt May is letting me butt in on your father-daughter bonding experience. Have you figured out how you'll be taking your shield with you?"

I snorted. "No, not yet. I'm still thinking of ways to get out of the whole thing."

Still, I appreciated Peter's approach, as if even bringing the shield at all wasn't even a question. I had yet to figure out how to sneak it out under May's nose; there was no way Steve wouldn't notice, I imagined, and I wasn't sure how I could explain _that_ to him, either. I couldn't recall if I even told Steve that I still had my shield. Would he think I was being paranoid, or too extra? Showing off? What would he think of me hiding it from Aunt May?

Awkward.

I didn't even know why I wanted to take it with me. It just… felt like the thing to do. The shield was mine. Even if nothing was happening in DC, I felt safer having it on hand.

"Why?" Peter asked. I cut him a significant look, aggrieved that I would have to explain this to him, the one person I told everything to. Peter blinked, then leaned back, recognition dawning upon his face. "Ohh, right. My two cents? Give it a shot. I think Steve really means it."

That annoyed me, a little bit. "Everyone keeps saying that."

"You don't believe it?"

I could only shrug, slumped back on the couch. I didn't know how else to explain it. The whole thing just made me dead inside, and I had no motivation to put more effort into it. It felt like the beginning of a lost cause.

"Well!" Peter perked up, raising his eyebrows. "Look on the bright side! Spring Break is only ten days, and you got seven with him. You just have to survive the week."

I gave him a wry look. Peter had a funny way with positivity. "Sure. Survive the week. How hard can it be?"

* * *

# ✮✮✮

* * *

He only came at night.

Although I knew this, I could never anticipate it.

Freezing wind bit into my cheeks, but I couldn’t feel it. A blinding white haze surrounded me, and as I moved through it, dark columns emerged, like ghosts in a blizzard. Heavy footfalls through deep snow, my feet following in the trail of another --- I had to squint to look ahead.

His silhouette, only a few meters in front of me. Metal arm gleaming pearly white in the snow. The red star, the only spot of color in this barren landscape.

A gun in his hands.

A gun in mine.

It was large, long, heavy. The word of it did not come to me immediately, but I knew that this was not the first time I held one.

This was, however, the first time I had been outside since… since…

Since never, perhaps.

Thoughts of escaping seeped into my mind. _Run, run. Run while you can._ But my feet did not stray from the path. I kept my eyes on the back of his head.

I couldn’t run. I didn’t know where he was taking me. I didn’t know where I was. Mountains, it seemed. Tundra, Siberia? Impossible to say. No sign of human civilization anywhere. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a small white rabbit, before it scampered away at two dark, silent wraiths.

I couldn’t hear anything beyond the shrieking wind that buffeted my face and hair, or the soft crunch of my footsteps. Our clothing was too light for this weather, but it allowed us to move more efficiently.

 _Rifle_ , I thought to myself, in a fleeting epiphany. _Sniper rifle. That’s what its called._

A rifle in my hands. My fingers twitch. The soldier did not glance over his shoulder to check on me. He would be completely unaware, should I lift the barrel, aim it at the back of his head. To pull the trigger, just as he taught me.

My hands shook. To lift the weapon without orders was like Atlas attempting to shrug off the world. He couldn’t do it. Neither could I.

In some versions of this dream, I was able to do just that. Point the rifle, aim for his head. But I could never reach the trigger in time before he turned around.

The soldier was always the faster shot.

Still, I couldn’t shake the notion of how _easy_ it would be, to just shoot and run. The stupid trust they put in me, their unwilling weapon. And yet, here I was, frozen, all rebellious action smothered before it could even take a breath.

As we continued hiking in a journey that seemed to last forever, I struggled to clench my grip, fight the programming in my head. Was it the programming, or just the logic of dreams that kept me from moving as I wished?

Just as I think I could do it, just as I brought the rifle to bear, rested the butt against my shoulder, I heard something.

Laughter.

My finger, inches from the trigger, just as my gaze turns.

Only ten feet to the right are two children playing. A boy and a girl. Dark-haired and blonde, respectively. I stare at them, two kids in bright summer clothing, playing with sparklers. The boy had thick glasses and curly hair. The girl had freckles and was wearing a nasal cannula. An oxygen tank. In her other hand, she carried a little blue plush alien, dragging it along the ground.

 _Wrong_. My mind said, sensing a disturbance in the memory. _This shouldn’t be here. Who are they? Why is this here?_

I continued to stare at them as we kept moving. The children’s laughter was so loud, I was surprised the soldier didn’t hear it. But he didn’t seem to notice at all; my head turned to watch them as we kept marching. Soon, the children vanished into the blizzard’s fog.

But just as they vanished, another sound took its place. Something jaunty, with a guitar. _Music?_ I couldn’t even remember the last time I heard music.

Now to my left. A hospital gurney and a dialysis machine, beeping softly in the middle of the forest. I blinked, caught off guard, my weapon completely forgotten. _What is going on_?

In the gurney lied a sleeping girl. Blonde with freckles; the same girl I saw earlier, but older, perhaps. Even from here, I could hear her wheezing, labored breath. The bruises under her eyes. The IV in her arm, the tube that vanished into the snow.

And at her bedside, a woman, stroking the girl’s hair and murmuring something too soft to hear.

An ache in my chest, watching them. Pain at the girl’s suffering, but also a longing. A longing for something I couldn’t remember.

“Стоп.”

The soldier’s voice cut through my reverie like a knife. Just like that, the woman and the gurney vanished, and I looked around to find the soldier watching me with cold eyes. Did he see what I saw?

Judging from his expression, or lack of one, apparently not.

With a point, the soldier gestured for me to come next to him. As I did, I found myself standing on the edge of a slope, down into a deep valley. The blizzard seemed to have lifted, allowing depth of field, and I could make out dozens, hundreds of individual trees, stripped bare by the unforgiving winter.

The soldier dropped to a crouch, and I copied him without waiting for command. The silent understanding between us was simple. _Do as I do._

As I adjusted my weapon, frowning at my hands and still ruminating on the strange visions I saw, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Смотри.” He murmured, taking my shoulder and pulling me closer as he leaned low. He was not rough; simply guiding, almost… gentle, the ghost of a touch. With his other hand, he pointed, and I looked out to follow his gaze.

Below us, two hundred meters away along the valley floor, a small form shifted between the field of trees. It was difficult to make out at first, as it appeared to be the same color gray as everything around it. But its horizontal motion, slow, delicate, sent the deer into view.

I knew so little of wildlife. I couldn’t tell if it was male or female, only that it didn’t have antlers. It peered around, dark eyes blinking, ears rotating, as if it could sense it was being watched.

Neither of us moved.

“ _That is your target._ ” The soldier whispered. 

My only acknowledgement was a single nod. Then, I raised the rifle up once more. The action was immediate; smooth, simple, light.

I hated it. I didn’t want it to be so easy, when I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to kill this animal; I had never killed anything before. The one thing I _wanted_ to kill, and I couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried.

The irony did not escape me.

I tried to resist, but it was as if my body belonged to someone else. The best I could do was a moment’s hesitation. A tremble in my grip, the catch of breath.

It was enough, though, that the soldier noticed. He didn’t say anything, but I sensed the change when he glanced at me. Could he see me fighting with every ounce of my being?

I tried to stop. I knew I could do it. I could feel something starting to strain in my mind, like an elastic about to break.

I peered through the sights. No, I wouldn’t do this.

I wouldn’t.

I _wouldn’t._

The gunshot cracked through the air.

My hands stopped shaking. The deer fell.

 

* * *

# ✮✮✮

* * *

I woke with a gasp. Eyes flying open, throat raw, heart pounding, drenched in a cold sweat.

The winter forest was so burned into my mind I expected to see it again. But all I saw was my bedroom ceiling, the striped shadows of my window shade, the faint street light outside.

For a long moment, I couldn’t move and nearly panicked. It felt as though I were paralyzed, a mysterious ache in my chest, an invisible weight that seemed to be suffocating me. Every muscle in my body was taut, and even though I was panting like I’d just sprinted a marathon, my brain seemed to be getting no oxygen. Oh, god, was I dying —

No, I was fine; the dream had returned to haunt me in the real world. I ended up just lying there, helplessly, waiting for what felt like hours (but was probably only minutes) for the paralyzation to fade.

Bit by bit, my muscles relaxed, the sweat faded. By the time I could finally pull myself to a sitting position, I was absolutely exhausted.

But how could I fall asleep after that?

I dropped my head into my hands, rubbing at my dry eyes. Of course I had to have a nightmare on the day I headed out for vacation.

A month had come and went far too fast. I had been dreading the start of Spring Break, which was at odds with basically everyone else I knew. Everyone at school was looking forward to mid-March — either gearing up for fun, or taking a seat back and relaxing. I was neither. The closer it came, the more anxious I got.

All that anxiety culminated in the sleepless nights leading up to today. This was the first real nightmare that had struck me, though.

I didn’t necessarily dream of the Crucible, or any of the memories I had there. They came to be in broken pieces, fragments pieced together into confusing and impossible scenarios. The Winter Soldier, unsurprisingly, featured in a lot of them. Others, slightly less awful, were the ones with Wanda and Pietro — there was one memorable dream where they had been in history class with me.

Only we were handcuffed to the desks, as we had been once in the Crucible. We couldn’t escape until I answered the questions written on the board. We had until the clock ran out. I couldn’t read, not even in my dream; the twins knew what the words said, but their mouths had been sewn shut.

We never got out.

So, you know. That’s fun.

A lot of my nightmares were like that. Pieces of horror haphazardly stitched into my civilian life.

This was the first time I ever had such a vivid… recollection.

Thinking about Wanda and Pietro now, I couldn’t help but feel the old ache. I missed them. I wished they were here, so I could have people to talk to. I didn’t tell anyone about these dreams. Not to Peter, not to Steve, not May, not anyone.

It wasn’t just that it would be hard, getting those words out. But they didn’t have the context I did. They wouldn’t understand, I wasn’t sure I could ever bring them to the same level as me. It hurt just thinking about it, and it’d be that much worse trying.

Whatever. Still feeling sick, I got out of bed to pace, then opened my window to get some air. March had warmed things up a little bit, so the breeze wasn’t _quite_ as cold as I’d like. After a few moments, standing in front of that open window, staring into Queens at night, left me feeling too exposed. I closed the window again, dropped the shades, and slipped out of my room.

Into the bathroom. Sink, faucet, cold water gushing out. Ice cold. Splashing it onto my face, feeling the slight rush as my neurons fired and nerve receptors gave me something tangible to latch onto, to feel.

Then I just stood there, leaning against the sink, looking at my reflection but not really _seeing_ it. Water dripping off my chin, a few tendrils of hair sticking to my cheeks. A girl with a scar above her eye and freckles on her face who couldn’t make a smile look real if she bet her life on it.

I could feel the Crucible drifting at the edges of my mind. The misplaced memories of those little kids, of childhood moments, and how I couldn’t recognize them — myself — in my own dream. How it unsettled me.

 _The Crucible is a part of you, Amelia_. Brandt’s words whispered in my head. _You can’t run away from it, no matter how far you go. It’s already inside of you._

No, no, don’t dwell on it. I closed my eyes, tried to focus on what I could sense again. Cold tile floor, cold water down my face, whir of the small ceiling fan, the creak of a mattress in the room next door. These things reminded me of the here and now, of Queens, of everything that wasn’t the Crucible. It never will be.

Its gone. Destroyed. I was never going to see it again.

Morning could not come soon enough.

I tried to get some sleep after that, but didn’t succeed. I ended up groaning to the noise of my alarm going off, my phone buzzing with a text message. I had trouble reading it, especially as tired as I was, but already guessed what it said; Steve, who had left early in the morning, probably before the sun rose up, to drive over and pick me up.

He really was devoted to this whole mini road trip idea. Aunt May had tried to convince him not to drive, that I could just travel to DC on the train.

Steve would not be convinced. Either through some foolhardy devotion to tradition, or some harebrained concept that being stuck in a confined space for five hours would be good for the two of us, Steve was not letting go of the idea.

So at 10AM, he arrived as he promised; in a Ford pick-up, green and beige panels. It looked used, second hand. At least a decade old. I had seen it from my window and it did not improve too much when I was down on the street, fully dressed with my duffle bag. Aunt May had invited him in for a break of coffee, and I had left the meal early to go sit outside and contemplate my doom.

It was just silly teen angst, but better to brood about than my nightmare.

Steve had always used his motorcycle when he came to New York. I didn’t even think he had another vehicle. Not that I had been looking forward to a motorcycle ride; this felt safer, even if it meant the possibility for conversation would be 100%.

Hmm. Was it too late to feign sick and opt out? I hadn’t been sick since my grand return, I wasn’t sure Aunt May would buy it. Steve definitely wouldn’t. So I tried to enjoy the March weather. It was sunny, warm for a pre-Spring day. I was dressed moderately in jeans, sneakers and my green jacket. My fingers played absently with MJ’s bottle cap bracelet around my wrist. Aunt May insisted on the scarf and hat, so I obliged. It was quite comfortable now, and I actually smiled to myself, just a little.

This wasn’t so bad.

The doors opened behind me. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Steve and May stepping out, involved in chatter, with Peter right behind them.

As I came to a stand, Peter hopped down and nudged me with his elbow. “I took care of our little problem, by the way.”

It took me a second to remember what he was talking about, and I blinked in surprise when it hit me. “Really? When did you have time to do that?”

Steve had been here for less than an hour, and I had been under the impression that Peter had been inside for most of it. Peter himself just winked at me, and before he could answer, Aunt May called, “C’mon, you two! Let’s have one big goodbye hug before you leave.”

This hug involved nearly squishing me to death (which a small part of me almost wished had succeeded), kissing me on the forehead, and telling me to be on my best behavior. Guessing by the significant look May gave me, she knew I did not respect Steve’s authority as much as I did hers.

When she let me go, Steve was already getting into the truck, so I had no choice but to follow suit. Aunt May gave me one last pat on the back, and when I threw a desperate look in Peter’s direction, he just grinned and gave me a thumbs-up.

It wasn’t what I wanted, but it made me feel better, just a little.

Steve turned the engine on just as I closed the passenger door, duffle bag at my feet. Steve cast me a hesitant, but encouraging smile as he kicked the truck into gear and urged it off the curb. “Alright, this is it. You ready?”

Despite the fact that he had been up before the sun rose this morning, he looked fresh and energetic. All crisp shirt and jeans, even a Dodgers baseball cap. He kind of looked like...well, a dad, and I wondered how Steve could manage to be so well put-together that he looked as though he never needed a wink of sleep in his life.

It was a level of control I envied.

I just nodded mutely, barely able to return the smile. As the truck began to accelerate my heart did a funky lurch, and I turned in my seat. Faced nearly pressed against the window, I watched as May and Peter got smaller and smaller. They waved at us and I waved back; right up until we turned a corner and they vanished.

And that was it.   

“This is the first time you’ve been away from them, huh?”

It was a surprisingly astute guess, and one _I_ didn’t even realize was true until I had a second to think about it. I hadn’t left Peter or May’s side since I first returned home from Sokovia. When it dawned on me that I was going to be on my own again, it felt like I got run over by a train. “... Y-yeah. How’d you know?”

Steve just cast me a sympathetic look. “Mia, you’ve been wound up like a spring ever since I got here.”  
     
“Oh,” I felt my face warm and I ducked my head in embarrassment. I didn’t realize I had been so easy to read; or maybe I just forgot how perceptive Steve was. And to think, I didn’t consider him knowing me that well. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, I’m not judging you,” Steve said, and at my skeptical look he insisted, “No, really! I understand. Honestly, I’m the one who should say sorry. If I’d known the effect it would’ve had on you, I wouldn’t have pushed so hard at the idea.”

I shifted awkwardly in my seat, leaning against the door and away from him. The apology was even less anticipated, one I didn’t think was necessary and now didn’t know how to respond to. “It’s, er, it’s okay. It’s not like I said anything.”

“Why didn’t you?”

That time, I remained silent. I didn’t know how to tell Steve that I hadn’t said anything simply because it hadn’t occurred to me.

Or explain why even though the idea bothered me anyways, I still hadn’t spoken up.

The whole realization made me feel stupid, even a little cowardly; but I didn’t want to discuss it. I had made my decision and I was going to stick with it.  

Steve glanced at me again, still waiting for me to say something; when it became clear I wasn’t, he turned his attention back to the road, sighing softly and settling into his seat. The silence in the truck was almost unbearable, and I was decidedly relieved when he turned on the radio; grungy guitar notes and jaunty lyrics, tunes of a folk rock station, began to fill the cabin. I, too, relaxed, for a different reason — Steve wasn’t going to push the matter.

The music was a welcome backdrop as we made our way, first across the Queens-borough Bridge, then Manhattan. Although a short distance, traffic slowed us down, and I got to appreciate the last minutes I could spend in New York. It'd be a whole week before I'd see it again. The rivers, the towering sentinels of skyscrapers, the neat and orderly streets and even the angry honking and rude gestures of taxi drivers warring against the rest of the populace. The way the buildings were all packed together, so many people in the streets, just going about their business, filling up my field of vision and never leaving me without something to look at, I felt safe. They served as a buffer to the outside world, staved off the endless advance of sky and trees and the unknown wideness of the world. There was a luxury in the anonymity it provided; you could live here all your life and never see the same face twice.

Not only was I leaving Peter and May. I was also leaving the one place I could disappear into, and never get lost in.

Later, as we were coming out of the Lincoln Tunnel and heading onto the mainland, my phone buzzed with a text message.

 

> _How’s it going so far? :D_

 

Not even an hour into the trip and Peter was already messaging me. The text was super-large, easier for me to read, and it didn’t occur to me until now that it was also large enough for Steve to read if he were to glance over.

I quickly pressed my phone down without answering. And just as my instincts warned me, Steve asked, “Who’s that?”

“Just Peter.” My tone was clipped.  
  
When I didn’t elaborate, Steve cleared his throat and said, “Er, what did he say?”

As if there was any not-awkward way to relay the message without directly highlighting the current state of our conversation; that is to say, weird, stilted, and almost non-existent. So instead of the whole truth, I said, “Just wanted to know how I was doing.”

“Oh.” was Steve’s reply. A long pause. “You aren’t going to answer him?”

 _Now_ I was annoyed. _What are you, the text police_? I wanted to say, but bit my tongue. _That’s now how he meant it, that’s not how he meant it_. “I will, later, I’m just — I’m just tired, that’s all.”

Also, you know, didn’t want him to be able to read my reply and ask me about _that_ , too.

“Well, you can take a nap if you like,” Steve offered, and checked his watch. “We’ve got four hours to kill until we get there. Of course, that’s before traffic…”

I was actually a little surprised the trip was so short; then again, my last ill-planned road trip had been on a bus to Tennessee; a longer trip on a slower vehicle. When Steve hit the highway, I noticed he angled somewhere between five to ten miles over the speed limit; not JARVIS-level crazy, probably still slower than most people on the road, but it made me wonder at Steve’s driving habits, and what it said about a person.

... Who was I kidding? Steve rode a motorcycle, too. That was, by default, more dangerous than mildly speeding in a truck.

But I digress. I was happy to take up the offer, as I was devoid of any conversation topics, and even with the short trip time, four hours was still a long time to be stuck in a car with someone you had trouble talking to.

And I hadn’t been lying, either. I _was_ tired. That nightmare was still rattling in my brain somewhere, like some demented bat in the attic.

Deciding I really could use the sleep — and maybe when I woke up it’d put me in a better mood — I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, shutting out the sun, the truck, the whishing scenery outside.  Deep down, I wondered if it was already too late to salvage this trip. If sleep could do anything at all to help.

Two failed conversations and heavy silence. Hell of a way to start this family vacation. 


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus, kind of hit a creative slump I couldn’t work out of for a while…hopefully I can get more updates out faster over the summer (: 
> 
> I also apologize if this chapter is shorter than the others, I’m trying to keep things interesting until the events of The Winter Soldier kick in.

**Chapter Six  
**

# ✮

* * *

Golden sunlight greeted me when I stirred again, later that day.

Thankfully, no nightmares.

Music was still playing, now at a lower volume as the truck navigated through suburban streets. Not ready to wake up just yet, I looked out the window with half-lidded eyes, observing the passing houses and the pedestrians, out for a nice afternoon walk. The sun was warm and low in the sky, a soft evening drawing in.

When the truck started to slow and pull to the side, I looked up. A large, pale brownstone on the street corner, facing the sunset. Was this his place? The premature spring had small green buds sprouting on the sidewalk tree just outside, the rose bushes planted by the staircase.

Evening sunlight bathed the four-story brownstone as Steve parked the truck. Getting out and stretching my legs for the first time in hours, I noticed his bike parked a few feet away by the front steps. Just sitting there, no extra security. I looked back up at the brownstone. It seemed so ordinary, so demure. I could've mistaken this house for any of the others along this street.

Steve led the way inside, into a dim corridor and a staircase. We passed several rooms on the bottom floor, and as we began to climb, I said, "So. This is your super-secret superhero hideout, huh?"

"I'm just a man who likes his privacy," Steve replied as he paused on the second floor landing. He threw me a look over his shoulder, smirking. "It's also rent-controlled."

That made me smile and he winked. The hallway was narrower up here, with only two doors. As we continued, I said, "Well, I like it more than Avengers Tower, could you _imagine_ —"

Before I could finish my thought, the door closest to us opened as we past, and out came a woman with a basket of laundry. She stopped at the sight of us, startled. "Oh, Steve! I didn't hear you come up."

"Oh, uh — hey! Kate," Steve faltered at the sight of her, a bewildered smile catching across his face. I nearly bumped into him when he suddenly stopped in the middle of the hallway. I caught myself in time, a little annoyed as I took a second gander at this lady. Shorter than me, but older, maybe Steve's age. Honey blonde with warm coffee-colored eyes, she matched Steve smile for smile. "Sorry, we're just coming in from New York."

"New York?" The blonde woman eyes lit up again when she turned her attention back to Steve. "All that way, and I didn't even realize you'd left!"

"Uh, yeah, you know, just took the truck and made a day of it," Steve said, rubbing the back of his neck. My annoyance faded as I started to pick up on the pink in Steve's cheeks, the fidgety stance,

Then it hit me; Steve was _nervous._ Nervous in front of this lady.

"Well, that's nice," The woman said, and sounded like she meant it. The way she cocked her head and smiled at him, closed lips and sparkling eyes. "I'm glad you had a good time."

And then there was me, just standing there like an idiot, looking between the two. What the heck was going on?

"Yeah, me too," Steve said, remarkably uncreative of him. They just stood there looking at each other for a long, awkward moment.

Then my eyes widened, comprehension dawning on me. Oh my god. _Is this flirting?_ Am I a dumbass?

At long last, the woman seemed to notice me. Looking to me, she asked pleasantly, "So, who's this? A friend?"

"Who?" Steve did a double-take, then looked at me as if suddenly remembering I was there. Mildly unimpressed, I raised my eyebrows at him, giving a significant look, but didn't say a word _._ Steve gave a chuckled weakly, caught, before saying, "Ah, sorry, right. Mia, this is Kate, my neighbor," Steve said, gesturing vaguely to her, then to me. "And Kate, this is Mia. She's my, er…"

It was only a second's hesitation, but it was enough. Having already witnessed what I guessed to be an awkward attempt at flirtation (by my guess, at any rate), the natural urge for shenanigans and spite kicked in, and before I could stop myself, I held out my hand to Kate and grinned. "— Latest pity-case. It's nice to meet you, Kate."

Steve blinked, then threw me a look that said _Really?_ I just shrugged, unashamed.

Kate, for her part, caught my sarcasm and laughed before taking my hand. "Well, it's nice to meet you, too, Mia. I didn't know Steve had any, ah, pity cases."

Shaking his head, Steve turned back to Kate and continued, "I was _going to say_ 'family', but she beat me to it."

" _Hey_ —" I began, offended.

"Well, we gotta go!" Steve said quickly, pushing me along down the hall before I could throw any more shade at either of us. He waved jovially to Kate. "See you later!"

"Of course!" Kate grinned, seemingly oblivious as she went on her way towards the staircase. She waved to us and called, "Maybe we'll run into each other later!"

It seemed Steve couldn't get me inside fast enough. As I waved to Kate, he fumbled with the keys to the door, before dragging me inside just as I called out, "Yeah, sure! Hope you have a good even —"

The door shutting cut me off. I wasn't even mad. Not gonna lie, that was pretty entertaining. I could barely contain myself, and it wasn't until Steve had ushered me inside his apartment did I finally break. With a shit-eating grin, I turned to him and said, "So, _Kate_ , huh?"

We stepped into a small foyer with a window to the left. With a small closet and stool where a small series of boots and shoes were lined up. Steve took my jacket and hung it on the wall next to the door, and I glanced out the window to my right, taking in the street below.

"Very funny," Steve said wryly. Not mad, maybe a little aggrieved. But I was too pleased to be ashamed, glad I finally seen Steve in a moment of vulnerability. "I'm not going to live that one down, am I?"

At first, I thought he meant the flirting, but then it occurred to me he might've meant the awkward introduction instead. It didn't bother me _that_ bad, but I hadn't failed to notice he specifically avoided the word 'daughter' or any other word that might refer to me as his kid.

Then again, it wasn't like I'd given him the chance.

“Hm,” I said, pursing my lips upon realizing I was the idiot in this situation. “I haven’t decided yet. You never mentioned me to this Kate, huh?”

But that hesitation still resonated with me. _Family_. I was aware of how I saw Steve, the reality of the situation. But how did Steve view me? If I hadn’t jumped the gun, would Steve had been more straightforward? It wasn’t like he was used to introducing me to people ­— anymore than I him.

Or maybe I was, once again, overthinking things.

“No, we’re just neighbors. I’ve only spoken to her in passing. Anyways, make yourself at home,” he offered with a smile, gesturing for me to head further into the house. “What’s mine is yours.”

I was relieved he hadn't taken my answer badly. As Steve moved on ahead, through the open doorway into a larger room, turning on the lights and bringing the apartment to life, I stopped and stood there, taking a second to absorb it. It felt awkward, to suddenly step into his life like this, and the unfamiliar setting instinctively had me marking all the windows and doors, possible exits and escapes.

After I calmed that part of my mind, my eyes drifted to the details — the living room before me, the modern furniture, the soft, warm tones. A fireplace with a finished hardwood mantle, the window seat with slightly worn upholstery. The center of the floor was occupied by a support column, fitted to be a decorative half-wall with shelving. This wasn't the penthouse of Avengers tower; bright and shiny, high-contrast with flashy colors. No, it was reserved, humble, even. Normal.

Normal. The kind of place you wouldn't guess Captain America to live in.

There was just enough technology to throw me off. The widescreen TV, the stereo system, the wafer-thin laptop sitting on the coffee table. An electronic thermostat, flip switches. I don't know _why_ I assumed he _wouldn't_ have these things, I just expected something…. different.

"Sorry it's a little messy, I didn't really have the chance to clean before I left this morning," Steve apologized with a chuckle, picking up a jacket off a nearby seat, but besides that I didn't notice anything out of place.

"It's fine," I said absent-mindedly, still looking around. God, Aunt May would _kill_ for Peter and I to keep our house as clean as Steve did his.

Then the other pieces came into place as I shifted again, taking one step forward, then another. The living room took one corner of the building, so the rest of the apartment laid out to my right. Past the living room was a small hallway of doors to what I figured to be a bed and bathroom. Opposite the far end of the living room was a small bar and a set of stools that opened into the kitchen, leading to another hallway leading back into the building.

It was about the same size as Aunt May's in Queens, but...sparser, somehow. I couldn't put my finger on it. There was just as many things here, each room was filled with its share of furnishings and knickknacks. But something was missing. I just couldn't figure out what.

I caught the items that made this place home for Steve, special in a way that was his alone. The old-fashioned record player, the X-shaped stand to hold said discs. The framed posters on the wall, old war propaganda pieces, a few framed newspaper headliners from the 40's. More framed pictures were set against the floor, along with stacks of books by the wall of shelves. Lots of books.

I half-expected them to be war novels or biographies when I stepped closer to inspect them. But picking one up, I was surprised to find it was an anthology of Mark Rothko, a famous painter. The book beneath that one on the stack was a history of cinema. Then an Italian cookbook. Another, _To Kill a Mockingbird._

Huh.

"Had any ideas for dinner?" Steve called, making me jolt a little. His voice had come from behind and I realized I'd lost track of his movements.

Setting the book down, I just shrugged my shoulders. "Uh…dunno."

Another one of my incredible eloquent responses. Steve seemed to expect this, as he leaned against the bar that separated the space between us. Tilted his head in what I thought might have been encouraging. "Well, I'm open to ideas. There's always take-out, pizza. Kate recommends a Thai place down the road I haven't tried yet. Or I could whip something up here? My cooking will probably never stand up to May's, but I promise, it's more edible than it looks."

That made me smile a little. _God, he_ is _trying, isn't he?_ Ordering take-out seemed tempting, especially after a long ride, but it didn't feel quite right to get lazy just yet. Still pondering about the titles I just read, I said the first thing that popped into my mind, "How about… pasta?"

"Spaghetti it is," Steve grinned, and the relief that followed in his dropped shoulders was nearly palpable. We found something we could both work with, it seemed.

Matter settled, I made to turn around and inspect his library some more when Steve spoke up again, catching my attention. "Oh, you can go set your bag in the room down the hall. The bed's yours."

The comment surprised me. "Y-your bed? I mean, I can just take the couch…?"

I'd honestly sleep on the floor, that seemed more comfortable an idea than taking Steve's own room. But he just shook his head, turned towards the stove, face away from me. "I don't think it's very gentleman of me to make you sleep on the couch."

I just stood there silently, stewing in my discomfort but unable to vocalize it in any coherent way. Perhaps sensing my growing anxiety, Steve paused, then turned to me, gesturing with a placating hand. "Mia, it's fine. The couch is big enough for me, don't worry about it. I figured you'd like the privacy."

He was right, I did, but that didn't shake the scratchy feeling of displacing Steve in his own home. Still, he insisted, and I followed his pointed finger down the hall, to the singular bedroom that awaited.

It was as tidy as everything else, I noted, stepping inside. The floor was clear, the hamper empty, bed made and sheets tucked to military precision. I almost felt bad, dropping my bag on top and messing the smooth spread of sheets. The impact sent up the distinct scent of fabric softener — new, clean sheets. He must have prepped this before he left this morning.

Wow, Steve really did have it all taken care of, didn't he?

Unsure how to feel about this, I left the bag there; first setting up my phone charger and cell on the nightstand before sitting on the bed; partly just to test it out, partly because I was feeling kind of useless and didn't know what to do. So I just sat there and took in the room, with its plain dresser, the vintage photographs of old bomber planes, a model car on the bureau with a mirror. My reflection looked back at me, the bags under my eyes a reminder of the sleepless night I had before.

Still watching myself, I tucked some hair behind my ear. I had come a long way since Sokovia.

"Hey Mia!" Steve's voice echoed down the hall. "Wanna help your old man out with dinner?"  
  
"Oh, right," I snapped out of it and got up, making a beeline back to the kitchen. A seed of uncertainty was still sprouting in my gut. I still felt a little dumb around Steve, feeling every moment of silence and wondering what the hell my teenage emo ass was gonna do when I didn't have Aunt May there to make Casual Adult Conversation.

I decided I was going to try my best. That always worked out. Sometimes.

When I returned, the kitchen had been transformed with an influx of ingredients, spices, pots and tools. A pot of water was already set over the stove, not yet boiling, while another had plain tomato juice in it — one Steve was trying to add spices into, studying a cookbook at the same time, holding out a tablespoon over the pot, not yet tipping it over as he read over the instructions another time. After a long second of deep trepidation, he finally tipped his hand and let the oregano fall.

On the cutting board was a frozen brick of packaged meat. My attention drew to that, first. I picked it up without a second thought. "What's this for?"

"Meatballs," Steve said, not looking up from his book. "Forgot I had it in the freezer, though… we don't have to have them if you don't want to."

"Spaghetti without meatballs is like," I began, taking the brick and sticking it in the microwave to defrost. "Cake without icing. It's just not as good."

"Fair enough," Steve grinned, shaking his head. "I wasn't sure if you were a big eater or not."

"I'm not so bad," I said, watching the meat rotate behind the microwave window. Halfway through, I opened the door to flip the meat over. "It's Peter you have to look out for. His stomach is bigger on the inside than the outside."

"That explains why there's no leftover pizza every time I bring some over."

I laughed a little at that. When the microwave dinged, I pulled out the now-warm slab of burger and set it on the cutting board. The process was mostly silent, aside from the slowly bubbling pot of water, the clatter of bowls and spatulas, the crackle of fire in the stovetop. It wasn't a bad silence; at least not to me. Both of us were busy working and I kind of liked the quiet comradery. It was also nice because, just as I predicted, I couldn't think of a way to break the ice. So I just puttered along and pretended to be oblivious as I started to roll the blended meat-and-spice combo into little balls, setting them in neat rows on a cookie sheet, while Steve finished taste-testing the sauce and put the dried spaghetti into the now-boiling pot of water.

When we switched tasks so he could finish the meatballs and I watch the simmering sauce, the conversation didn't pick up again. I noticed the TV in the corner behind us and was heavily tempted to ask to turn it on. Or maybe just do it myself. But that would be rude, wouldn't it? At least, to me, it would be clear that my socializing was so bad or reluctant that I had to cover it in some other way.

The one good thing was that the meal seemed to be getting along alright. The meatballs now baking in the oven. The noodles swirling in water, sauce bubbling cheerfully. The smells, certainly, indicated a good turnout, and the kitchen grew warm and comfortable with our activity.

"What is it?"

Steve's question pulled me out of a reverie; I had been staring into the sauce pan, not paying attention aside from stirring. I looked up, confused. "What?"

"You're smiling," Steve shrugged one shoulder, the one closest to me.

"Oh," I said, blinking down at the pot, feeling the corners of my lips pull into my cheeks. "The sauce. It smells just like the way my mom used to cook it."

And just like that, the smile was gone.

I hadn't meant to bring her up, but the memories were there; of Mom in the kitchen, tending to an array of pots and pans, whipping up homemade dinner as she always did. Nothing fancy, really; soups and pastas, often because I was sick and had difficulty eating other things.

It was bad enough I remembered her, and remembered that I missed her. It was another to remind Steve of the one thing about him I couldn't get over.

I didn't mean to guilt trip him; nevertheless, Steve went silent, having no immediate reply. I closed my eyes and inhaled; I had inadvertently killed another moment.

"My mom used to cook all the time, too."

Eyes opening, I blinked up at Steve in surprise. "Really?"

"Oh yeah," Steve nodded, stirring the noodles with a distant look in his face. "Dinner, birthdays, church potlucks, the soup kitchens, she was always making stuff. Not just for us, but for the folks in the neighborhood. She'd drop by a pot of soup for a family that just lost a job, she'd trade coffee rations for flour. Somehow, my mother always had an extra loaf of bread around to give to Bucky after school. Save up a whole month for enough sugar to make a cake for my birthday once. I was seven. It was the best birthday I ever had."

Steve shook his head to himself, chuckling wryly. "I have no idea how she did it. It wasn't so bad when I was young, but when the Great Depression hit…we barely had enough to feed ourselves. But my mother, she always had something. We kept a small garden on the roof; carrots, cabbages, whatever we could make grow in an old pot or bucket…I think it was the one of the reasons I made it out of there alive."

As I listened to him speak, it occurred to me that this was entirely new information. I had _no idea_ what Steve's own mother was like, his family even. I knew, vaguely, from the history books that he didn't have a father growing up, but beyond that, Steve's past prior to WWII was a mystery to me.

I tilted my head, intrigued. "I think I heard about those. Victory gardens, right?"

"No, that's what they were called during the War." Steve shook his head, then frowned a little, apparently amused by a thought. "I guess we were just used to the rationing at that point. I don't know when it ended, but for me, it was just a, uh, a reality. I don't remember much of my life that didn't involve having to scrape by with food. But my mother, she knew how to survive, and she wasn't going to let anyone else down if she could help it. We were all suffering, together."

I studied the stove's backwash, taking all that in. "What was her name?"  
  
"Sarah." A faint, sad smile on his lips. "Her name was Sarah. I think she would've liked you, Mia."

My lips quirked up, surprised, and also touched. A silence fell between us as I absorbed that, continuing to stir the slowly simmering sauce. Sarah: the name of a woman I've never met. A strange ache filled my chest, a sense of loss I couldn't quite understand.

Then I noted a missing piece in Steve's story. "What about your dad?"

"Oh, he died before I was born. A soldier in World War One." The look on Steve's face was a type of serene melancholy; an old pain, but one he had long since learned to live with, had come to accept. "Never got to meet him, but my mother would tell stories. An Irishman who moved to America for a better life; faced discrimination, but didn't let that stop him from finding a life, a home here, a country worth fighting for. Dying for."

I opened my mouth and almost said _I know how that feels_ before remembering who I was talking to. How I wished Mom had done that, but she had remained utterly silent. I suppose she had a good reason, looking back, but still. It didn't feel right to say something like that. Not to Steve. I didn't want to inadvertently accuse him of anything.

Instead, I screwed up my face, feeling a deep sense of empathy and wondering how to communicate it. "That's good, though, right? You knew who he was."

"I think so," Steve said, taking the pot of cooked noodles and dumping the hot water in the sink, before setting the pot back down on the counter. Taking out plates, he continued, "He inspired me, maybe in ways my mother would have preferred not to. But I like to think I would've made them proud. If it weren't for them, I wouldn't be who I am now."

"You wouldn't be _here_ now," I added; not in a mean way, but pointing out what I figured to be a fact. If Steve hadn't been raised the way he had, he wouldn't have joined the Army, wouldn't have become the perfect soldier.

Wouldn't have woken up seventy years in the future.

Steve, too, didn't take it that way. He just cast me a rueful smile. "Yeah, I suppose that's true. Can't complain, though. Future's not so bad once you get used to it."

That surprised me a little, too. As the plates were filled, I took the one Steve handed to me and stuck my fork into the first meatball. Although there was a kitchen table right there, neither of us moved from the kitchen counter, or the mess we had made. I said, "It doesn't bother you, being in the future? I always figured it'd never stop being weird, or something."

"Oh, it has its moments, still," Steve said with a nod of acknowledgement. He pulled out two sodas from the fridge and tossed me one. "Hey, good catch. There are the things you expect, you know, better phones and cars. The Internet completely blindsided me." Steve cast me a side glance as he took a sip from his bottle. "Oh, and the manners. Respect for your elders? Completely gone down the drain."

"You're mean," I said with a grin, flipping off the soda cap with my thumb, one-handed. The other hand was still balancing my plate. I set my drink onto the counter as I continued, not at all offended, "Maybe we just don't respect you because you haven't earned it yet."

"Oh, ouch," Steve pretended to wince and bend over in mock pain. "See what I mean? No respect. Things weren't like this back in the day, no sir."

I grinned at that, taking a bite of food. I chewed thoughtfully. "So you don't miss anything? Anything at all?"

"No, I do, it's just," Steve frowned a little, studying the far wall for a moment, then back to his plate, pushing over a meatball. "It's not something I prefer to dwell on, I suppose. When I can, I do. But I think what's best for me right now is to live in the present, or try to. Too much time in the past and you might miss what's right in front you."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess that makes sense." After hearing so much about his parents, I wasn't expecting that answer.

Steve glanced at me, maybe realizing I didn't have much of an answer for that. He smiled, but not in a way that I liked. "So, how's school going?"

I threw him a sour look. "Oh, please. That's the best segue you got?"

Steve just shrugged, pleased with himself. "Depends if you have good grades or not. Is Michelle still bullying Peter?"

"He wouldn't call it that, but yeah," I replied, easing up at the tease. The conversation after that was light, easy. As we ate, I found myself enjoying everything. The food, the jokes, just the general air of it all. It occurred to me, in a brief revelation, that this might be the longest conversation we ever had between each other.

Huh. So far, so good.

_Bang._

I wasn't sure where the noise came from, only that it was close. One second, I was leaning against the counter, in the middle of telling Steve a joke Peter told me a day ago. And the next, I was on the ground, heart pounding, eyes wide, and my dinner plate, shattered on the ground at my feet.

I didn't remember falling. My eyes stared at the red sauce now splattering the floor, thick and red, its pungent spice lost to me, replaced by a thicker, rustier scent.

The sound of the gunshot still rang in my ears. I didn't even hear Steve saying my name, and didn't register his presence until a touch on my shoulder made me jump.  
  
Steve snapped his hand back, concern engraved into his face. He was kneeling down next to me; mouth moving, but I couldn't make out the words until the pounding heartbeat in my ears started to ease: "….fine, everything's fine, just a car backfiring…"  
  
Even though he was right next to me, Steve's voice sounded far away, like it was echoing down a train tunnel.

When I finally understood what he was saying, my face flushed warm with embarrassment. My hands trembled as I started to gather the shattered plate pieces, a burning behind my eyes. "S-sorry, I-I can’t — I d-didn’t mean —“

It was more than just embarrassment. Even though I knew I had overreacted, I couldn't seem to control my breathing or get my heart to slow down.

_Why couldn't I calm down?_

"Hey, it's alright, it's just an accident," Steve replied evenly, helping clean up, in more measured, easy movements. When he grabbed a washcloth, I thought he was going to use it to clean up the sauce, but instead he handed it to me. "Oh, Mia, your nose is bleeding…"

"W-what?" I blinked, startled. Stared at the offered cloth, then my hand went to my nose. Withdrew it, and a trail of blood slipped down my fingers.

And when I looked up again, it wasn't Steve there in front of me. No, instead, I saw cold eyes and pallid face, lanky dark hair and a shiny, metal arm presenting me the washcloth. But it wasn't clean anymore. It was covered in blood.

Bright, vibrant blood. Red as the star on his shoulder. Red as the star on mine.

I seized, terror petrifying me, a gasp caught in my throat. But as soon as I blinked, the image ( _so real, so close_ ) was gone.

Steve was back — blond hair, blue eyes — brow furrowing at my reaction. "Mia? What's wrong?"

I opened my mouth to answer but nothing came out. A dozen different words caught on the tip of my tongue, too many and too confusing to speak. My heart was still going like a rabbit, my hands tingled, muscles in my back and legs tensing. Ready to go, ready to run. _It's not safe, it's not safe here._

Blood slipped past my lip, onto my tongue. I recoiled at the taste, and without thinking, I was on my feet, rushing out of the kitchen, trying to staunch the bleeding with my own hand. Steve stumbled back at my sudden departure, calling out to me, but I wasn't listening. I just had to _go_ , had to _leave_ , had to _hide_.

I had just turned my back on him when the burning in my eyes came to the forefront. A sharp, ragged breath racked my throat before I could stop it, a brief sob escaping.

Luckily, by the time I felt the shame double, I was already in the bedroom, slamming the door behind me.  
  
The bed was right in front of me, but I went for the closet instead. Banged my hip against the bedpost on my way there, before crawling into the far corner of the closet, shoving aside boxes and yanking the door closed. The racing thoughts and pounding heart only began to subside as darkness fell over me, and the comforting presence of the narrow walls and veil of hanging clothes brought protection. From what? Who knows. I certainly didn't. I only knew the panic in my skin, in my still-shaking hands, the smeared blood mixed with confused, unwarranted tears.

I curled up there, arms wrapped around my legs, and buried my head in my knees, trying to catch my breath, and failing, over and over.

"Mia?"

Steve. I jolted, looking up. The tears had abated; I didn't know how much time had passed, only that it was long enough for me to calm down, to stop hyperventilating. I squinted in the darkness, trying to locate Steve's voice, only to realize he wasn't outside the closet, but rather the bedroom. The following rap on the door confirmed that theory.

"Amelia? Are you there?" he tried again, but I was still huddled in the closet, too far away to answer. Or too ashamed to try.

How long had I been in here? How long had he been out there? Why didn't he enter? I couldn't remember if I had locked the door behind me or not. It seemed like something I would naturally do, but the past hour was now just a blur. I didn't know if I had the sense of mind at the time to even think of it.

Even now, I was starting to feel ridiculous. Hiding in a closet, as if _that_ would protect me from the dangers I feared. The very real dangers that hadn't haunted me for months.

Why was I suddenly freaking out now?

I didn't know how to explain it, only knew that whatever I was feeling, it was powerful, overwhelming. It was like my nightmares, only worse, because I had been awake. I couldn't shake myself out of it like I could before.

The silence stretched on to the point I hoped Steve had already left; I hadn't bothered to answer, after all. I certainly wasn't going to open that door. My body felt locked in place, fingers gripping the fabric of my jeans so tightly my knuckles were white.

But then —

"Look, I-I don't know what's going on," Steve spoke again, at length. There was an odd timbre in his voice. Almost a tremble. "But I just, I want you to know you can talk to me, okay? Whatever it is, I'm… I'm right here."  
  
Swallowing thickly, I peered out of the crack in the closet door. The light of the hallway shone in beneath the bedroom door, Steve's shadow splitting the middle. In a movie, this would be the moment I found my gumption, had a change in heart, slipped out of my hiding spot and opened the door, just at the right moment, when Steve begun to turn away, defeated.

But this wasn't a movie. My emotions didn't obey the laws of good cinematic timing. I just continued to sit there, bereft in the dark, watching Steve's shadow beneath the doorway.

Waited, watched as, after one long minute stretched by. Then another.

A soft sigh, barely perceptible. Then Steve's shadow slipped away.

I listened carefully as his footsteps vanished down the hallway. I pressed my face into my arm to cover a cough, hoping he wouldn't hear and come back. Then I slumped backwards and rested my head against an old duffel bag. I had already resigned myself to this spot; no way was I going to be sleeping in the bed tonight. I doubted I'd be able to get sleep anyways.

This was going to be a long night.

What a hell of a way to start to this vacation.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just letting y’all know, I changed the dream sequence in Ch. 5, which affects the dream in this one.

**Chapter Seven  
**

# ✮

* * *

The next morning, I found a plate outside the bedroom door, with two pieces of toast and a note on it.

It was a surprise; earlier, I heard Steve knocked once on the door and say something, but I had been half-asleep and didn’t catch it.

Honestly, I almost didn’t take it. _Almost_. But then I remembered I had never finished dinner last night. Maybe Steve remembered, too.

I quickly dragged it inside before Steve could notice the door was open. This time, I made sure to lock it behind me, glanced at the shaded windows (no sunlight or spies for me), before looking down at the note.

It was short. Took me about half a minute to read through the cursive.

 

> _If you ever need to talk, I’m here._

I contemplated the note for a long moment before putting it back down on the plate, exchanging it for the toast. I didn’t hesitate to eat that, and actually managed to enjoy the taste of honey jam for a hot second. I ate sitting on the floor, my back against the door, glad to have my grumbling stomach appeased.

The clock read 10:43AM. I had not left the bedroom since I hid in here last night.

Steve had knocked on the door a few more times over the night and earlier this morning, to no response. I had figured he must have given up.

Picking the crumbs off the plate and nibbling on them, I guessed maybe he hadn’t.

I smiled a little bit, but it dropped all too soon. That dull headache behind my eyes returned, as well as the exhaustion of a sleepless night.

The bed sat before me, sheets untouched. Waiting.

I went back to safe, windowless shadows of the closet.

* * *

# ✮✮✮

* * *

Fragments of my past, haunting me.

That same nightmare came back. The white forest, the snow, the whistling bitter wind in my face. The Winter Soldier, leading the way in complete silence.

But something was different this time.

I wasn’t sure what it was in the beginning. At first, the only difference I noticed was the sudden _chill_ , the cold that bit into my skin. The pain wasn’t numbed anymore. I could feel the sting in my cheeks, winced at the rising shrill of wind. But it wasn’t snowing as heavily. The fog not as thick. Just like last time, I followed in the soldier’s trail, matching him footstep for footstep in the deep snow.

My legs seemed to be on autopilot, and I stared at the back of the soldier’s head.

And just like last time, the thought entered my head: _This is your chance. Kill him and run._

But the rifle was too heavy in my hands. My arms were wet cement. I couldn’t move them no matter how much I tried. I struggled telling apart nightmare from memory. I was trapped in my own body, my own head, unable to do anything but watch it all play out.

I never stopped trying to fight.

I _should_ have been trying to wake myself up, but I was never any good at lucid dreaming. This felt too real to ever be just a dream.

What should have given it away was when a boy and a girl suddenly appeared in front of me, racing through the forest; the same girl and boy as before. The girl, blonde braid flying in the wind as she rode on a skateboard, the boy pushing her from behind. Laughter echoed, distant and bouncing, as if coming down a long subway tunnel.

I paused, stared as they went past. The only time I felt in control of myself.

The soldier did not turn around. He didn’t seem to see or hear anything I did, as usual.

On we walked, not stopping for any breaks. I noticed the trees here weren’t so bare — some of the pines still had some needles, providing overhead coverage. A bird, here or there.

But the sky remained an endless expanse of thick white clouds, the horizon hidden by mountainsides in every direction I looked.

Far from home.

Once again, the soldier came to a stop ahead of me. I joined him, discovering ourselves at the edge of a treeline, a cliff. A valley, below us.

He pointed down the slope. I expected to see another deer, but instead, there was a small village, a road leading out. The houses were all small, made of stone, and their streets unpaved. From up here, we had a perfect view of the town center, the church tower the tallest building in the entire area.

It seemed so…cozy. The town center seemed to be a market, little rows of stalls and people circling around like ants.

This time, when the soldier brought me in close, he had a small, grainy photo in his hand. The portrait of a man with a thick handlebar mustache, dark eyes and a friendly smile. There was a distinct mole on his right cheek.

“ _This is your target.”_ The soldier whispered.

I didn’t know how long it took to find him. All I knew was my knees in the snow, the both of us still as statues as we scanned the little town. The soldier with a small pair of binoculars. Me with my scope. I imagined we would’ve been  in that exact position for days, if that’s what it took, waiting for that man to arrive.

And all that time, I wanted to run. I knew what was going to happen.

I couldn’t let it.

“Там.”

The soldier’s tone was quiet, but I had gotten so used to the silence that his voice made me jump. He pointed to a spot east of the village. I squinted, and watched as a vehicle emerged from around a bend below. An old Jeep, chipped brown paint, heading towards the village.

I readied myself without needing the order. Made sure the rifle was loaded, before following the vehicle through my scope. This was a greater distance than the deer had been. I would need more care to account for wind, and the arc of the bullet.

I could not miss.

_I had to miss._

I didn’t want to do this, but my body wouldn’t listen. I couldn’t tear my eyes away, unable to stop watching as the Jeep came to a stop just outside the village, at the front of a little house. The driver of the Jeep got out, before opening the rear passenger door.

Out emerged the man. The target. Handlebar mustache, cheek mole, thick fur coat. He clapped his driver on the shoulder with a smile, as thanks, and began to walk around the car, to the front door of the house.

The back of his head entered the crosshairs.

“Сделай выстрел.” The soldier ordered.   

Something in my chest lurched. My finger froze over the trigger. Breath caught in my throat. Tongue dry.

_Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Resist.  
_

“Сделай выстрел.” The soldier repeated, his voice tensing. The target was now on the stoop of the house. He was raising his hand to knock.

Soon, he would be inside, and it would be too late.

Still, I couldn’t move.

_This isn’t who you are._

I wanted to listen. I was trying so hard. I could feel parts of my body responding to me. A twitch of my head, a wriggle of my toes. I could do it. I could break out. I could run.

_If you do this, there’s no turning back._

I sensed, rather than saw, the soldier turning his head to me. I didn’t dare look up to meet his gaze. If I didn’t do this, if I failed, there would be no remorse in my punishment.

But it would be better than to take a life.

Better than to become a monster.

A metal hand clenched around my shoulder. “ _Take. The. Shot._ ”

My arms tensed around the weapon.

_No. You are not a killer._

The door to the little house opened. A squat woman greeted the man with open arms. They were smiling, laughing.

I leaned forward. My thoughts were racing, panicking. _This isn’t me. They can’t control me. I am stronger, I am stronger, I will not kill, I am not a —_

CRACK.

The target jolted, as if he’d been shoved. Then he fell forward, revealing woman standing in front of him. The man landed hard, sprawling across her doormat.

The woman threw her arms up, mouth opening in a silent scream.

Her face, splattered in blood.

* * *

# ✮✮✮

* * *

My eyes flew open.

The darkness that greeted me was so different from the dream that at first, I didn’t know where I was. My heart was racing and my neck was cramped, and it wasn’t until I shifted and felt the wall behind me and a coat brushed my shoulder did I remember I was still curled up inside the closet.

The small space no longer felt comforting. Suddenly feeling stifled, unable to breathe, I shoved the door open with my heel and tumbled out, trying not to gasp for breath.

I braced myself against the carpeted floor. I stared at my splayed fingers. The memory of holding that rifle was still hot in my mind, heavy in my hands.

I didn’t realize I was shaking until I made myself stand up. My shirt clung to my body, cold sweat chilling in the night air. I glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table.

Three in the morning.

Fantastic.

Two days had passed since my… episode, and I did not leave the apartment. Hell, I barely left the bedroom, and spent my time staring at the walls, my phone, or in short, fitful naps of the insomniac. I couldn’t remain asleep longer than an hour. I didn’t want to.

This night had been the worst so far. The nightmares that I had been anticipating all this time finally pounced, and left me a shaking, sweating mess.

I glanced back at the closet; my wretched little sanctuary for the past two, almost three nights now. Rubbing my arms, I already knew I wouldn’t be doing that again. It could protect my paranoia in the daytime. But at night? Nothing could keep away the nightmares.

It felt as though I hadn’t gotten any sleep at all. I felt more exhausted now than I had the previous morning.

At the same time, a restlessness overwhelmed me. Standing up felt better, but I had to _move_. To think. To… I don’t know. Just not be here anymore.

Opening the bedroom door carefully, I peered out into the dark hallway. I couldn’t hear anything — hadn’t heard anything as far as I could recall. Steve must still be asleep. Not wishing to disturb the silence, I crept out, stepping carefully over the hardwood floor; I couldn’t predict where it would creak, so just went for the lightest footsteps I could manage.

Moonlight filtered in through the living room windows, casting the space in a soft blue-white light. I glanced at the couch, and frowned when I saw that it was empty. Where was Steve?

I looked around, behind me, towards the kitchen. He didn’t seem to be here. Maybe he was in another room.

Fine by me. I wanted to be alone anyways.

Approaching one of the windows, I fumbled around for a bit before I figured out how to open it. There was no handy fire escape or balcony for me to brood on, and I wasn’t daring enough to sneak out onto the roof (just yet), so an open window would have to do. The pane opened by angling out, so I couldn’t really lean out that far.  But it was all I needed for the moment.

Cold night air rushed in. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Can’t sleep?”

Jumping, I cursed, then wanted to kick myself for letting that out. Behind me stood Steve, leaning against the bookcase, the upper half of his body hidden in shadow. I hadn’t heard him come in. I opened my mouth, scrambling on what to say; apologize for my language, give a witty retort, or maybe swear again.

Instead, I bowed my head. “...Yeah.”

“Me neither,” Steve replied, his tone so casual. As if the fact that we hadn’t really spoken for two days was an issue. He just sauntered over, sitting on the window seat opposite me, easy as could be; like the last time he saw me wasn’t in the middle of a panic attack. He was dressed in a loose shirt and some black sweatpants — pajamas?

The moonlight glinted off his blue eyes, turning them silver. He had a sort of half-smile on his face. Part amused, part chagrin. “Couch is too soft. I take it the bed doesn’t suit you, either?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I hadn’t used it, even once. Unable to meet his gaze, I focused on his socks and mumbled, “Yeah, something like that.”

The way Steve could be so calm, friendly had completely disarmed me. I didn’t expect this to be the way our first conversation started after that whole episode. We had interacted in small ways; the most direct way was texting me intermittently. The first day he asked if I wanted to call Aunt May, wanted to go home. I said no; as terrible as I felt, I didn’t want to go home to May and explain what happened. I certainly couldn’t lie about it, and Steve would no doubt give her a full briefing.

As far as I knew, Steve kept his word and didn’t tell her. At least, I hadn’t gotten any calls from Aunt May, which was a good sign. She wouldn’t hesitate if she knew something was wrong. After that, Steve would ask me more mundane questions; usually if I was okay.

All of my replies were monosyllabic. But I made sure to reply to most of them.

“How’re you feeling?” Steve asked.

“Oh,” I blinked, stirred out of another reverie. I hugged my legs to my chest. Resting my cheek on my knees, I could look out the window and not feel pressured to meet his gaze. “I’m… okay. Better, I guess. A little bit.”

It sounded a lot like a lie.

“Nightmares?” he guessed, tilting his head. Gentle, inquisitive.

I could sense the topic dancing at the edge of our conversation. I focused on a street lamp across the road, its light flickering over the sidewalk. “Yeah.”

“I get them, too.”

I lifted my head, eyes widening slightly at him. Steve looked so relaxed lounging there, while I was a wound-up ball of tension. How could he have nightmares? “You do?”

“Well, when I’m not tossing and turning all night, sure,” Steve shrugged, making a face. “It’s not as bad as it used to be. When I first woke up here, they were constant. But now, I don’t know. It got better, over time. My biggest problem is just finding the right mattress now.”

It was meant as a lighthearted joke on a serious topic, and it actually worked. I laughed. A hoarse, weak little huff, really, but genuine nonetheless. “Yeah, I’m not used to sleeping on a real bed, either.”

It wasn’t until the mirth froze on Steve’s face did I finally hear myself and I shut down. Mouth snapping close, eyes averted, head turned away.

_Why did I say that. Why did I say that. Such an idiot._

Steve didn’t say anything. My neck prickled from his gaze, and it took all my strength to keep my hackles from rising.

At length, he said, “Mia, I want you to know that you can trust me. You can talk to me. And if you don’t want to, that’s okay, too.”

Fingers tightened into my jeans. I clenched my jaw, watching that streetlamp like my life depended on it. A part of me really did want to tell him. To just unload, if nothing else. And what if Steve was the only person who could understand? I didn’t have anyone else in my life that I could potentially trust with the whole story right now. Not even Peter. The twins, once, but they weren’t here right now.

Someone I didn’t have to worry I’d hurt or scare with this information.

But the thought of revealing my current nightmare was too awful. My skin crawled and my eyes burned just thinking about it.

Pushing it back, I struggled to keep my face even. I was probably failing miserably. But could I really trust Steve? I wasn’t even sure who he worked for. Maybe he was mature, experienced enough to hear the story, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be just as disgusted as anyone else.

Fear made my heart skip a beat.

I took a deep breath, closing my eyes. Not talking was okay, too.

He had nightmares, too.

Steve sighed. Maybe he knew he’d gone too far, pushed too hard. Didn’t know how to backpedal after I made that slip. Rubbing the back of his neck, he started to say, “Mia, I’m sorry, I won’t ask —”

“I thought it would be over,” I whispered. “I thought it’d be over when I got home.”

I was so caught up in my own thoughts I hadn’t realized I’d interrupted him. When I realized I had, I flushed and glanced at him, embarrassed. But Steve was just staring at me; a tiny nod to keep going.

Discomfort climbing up my back like a spectre, I went back to studying the seat upholstery. Continuing quietly: “Even after I found out Mom died, I thought I still had a normal life waiting for me. That I could just fall back into it, like an old habit. That I could put behind everything that happened and just move on.”

I didn’t know how to explain everything that happened after the fact. Then again, Steve probably already knew. “But obviously, that wasn’t the case.”

“When that Mandarin thing happened?” I took a deep breath, straightening my back, having finally summoned the will to meet Steve’s gaze again. His face was unreadable, a slight frown, but it meant I could speak without hesitation. “I jumped right into it. Everything I tried to do to be normal? Right out the window without a second thought. Risking my life for who knows what. And the funniest thing? After it was all over, I had the best sleep of my life.”

I just hunched up my shoulders in a helpless shrug, laughing without humor. “I mean, that’s messed up, right? After everything that I’ve gone through, everything I’ve seen, and it doesn’t stop me. I wonder if there’s something wrong with me.”

Steve’s frown deepened, but he didn’t answer that.

“But at least it’s not worse, right?” I finished with a wry, broken smile.

Steve sighed through his nose. I guess that was a lot to take in; I didn’t realize how much I was rambling and now I was starting to feel mortified, and had to break eye contact again. Look out the window, work my jaw and fight against the tears again. What an idiot. What a fool. Why did I say all that?

That’s when a hand rested on my shoulder. Steve had leaned over, and now gave me a gentle shake of reassurance.

And said: “No.”

I blinked, caught off guard. Steve looked me dead in the eye as he continued, “You don’t have to be grateful that it isn’t worse, Mia. Just because you’re not where you were before doesn’t mean it’s all better now.”

“...Oh.” Was my oh-so-eloquent reply. I didn’t know how to respond to that; something in me said those words were important, but I was struggling to unravel them. All the same, I felt a strange lightness in my chest. A sort of sense that, maybe, everything would be okay.

Still feeling a little lame on how to respond, I added, “Thanks.”

Nice save.

Apparently assured that I had received the message, Steve nodded and pulled back. I watched him for a moment before asking, “What do you do, then? About the nightmares?”

Steve had to think about that. “Not sure. I don’t really have a cure for it. But doing this, getting fresh air, even exercise sometimes, it helps. Netflix is also a great help.”

“You have a Netflix account?” I snorted, disbelieving. But from the look on his face, I realized he was serious. “No way. I didn’t think you’d go for that sort of thing.”

“What, you don’t remember our last conversation?” Steve asked, smirking. It was dangerously close to a bad topic, but he managed to steer it away with: “Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I can’t get with the times. I bet I know a lot more than you think. I even take suggestions, from time to time.”

“Really?” I said, sitting back to stretch out my legs and fold my arms. It was a more open position, and my back had been starting to cramp up. “So if I tell you to watch something from this millennium, you’ll do it?”

“I guess it depends, but sure.”

Grinning, I already knew what I wanted to suggest. “Have you seen _TopGun?_ ”

“...That’s the one with that Tom Cruise guy, right?”

“Yes, him! Me and Peter love that movie. If you haven’t already, you _have_ to see it.”

“This is by far the most excited I’ve ever seen you and that scares me, to be honest,” Steve said with a completely straight face. “Do I really want to do this?”

“Yes!”

“Alright, alright,” he laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’ll add it to the list, don’t worry.”

Extremely pleased, I sat back, letting my shoulders drop. What felt like a mass of tension had left my body, a weight lifted, my mind brought to a better place. Even if temporarily.

Funny how things work out.

“Hey,” Steve began quietly, pulling something out of his pocket and offering it to me. “I know this is kind of late, but consider it a belated birthday present. Just something I wanted you to have.”

He placed a small, cylindrical object into my hand, a long cord attached. My brow furrowed, confused. I flipped open the cover, discovering the floating needle inside.

It was a compass. _Steve’s_ compass.

My jaw dropped and I whipped around to look at him. “This — this is your —”

“Yep, the one and only,” Steve gave a definite nod, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a smile. Then he dipped his head, expression fading slightly. He clasped his hands together.  “Look, I, ah, I know I haven’t been the best. But I want you to know, Mia, I’m not giving up on you. So, try not to give up on me just yet, okay?”

I pulled my eyes from the compass to meet his gaze, uncertain. “I...I’ll try.”

He smiled. “If you want me to hang around, just say the word. I’ll be with you till the end of the line.”

I stared at him, then back at the compass. I ran my thumb over the slightly scratched glass covering the needle. Although the device was over seventy years old, it felt much newer. It was small, but the green metal casing gave it a solidness. A little dinged, a little scratched, hardly perfect, but somehow more valuable than I could describe. Markings of a war I’d only read in books and seen on screen. And there was a weight to it, a mass greater than its physical size in my palm.

A burning rose behind my eyes; I was suddenly overwhelmed with an emotion I didn’t know how to describe. Steve’s words had struck me far deeper than I anticipated.

Tears bit at the surface, and I quickly wiped them away before Steve could see. But the little sniffle ratted me out, and I was screwed.

“Oh, hey,” A gentle hand landed on my back. Steve leaned in, his brows rising in worry. Perhaps even a little bit of panic, clearly not expecting this reaction. “Uh, it’s — it’s okay. I’m sorry, if it’s not right, I didn’t mean to upset you, Mia —”

“N-no, it’s not that,” I shook my head, teary smile half-hidden behind my raised sleeve. Once it started, it was hard to stop. With shaky voice I said, “I-I love it, it’s just…”

When I didn’t speak for a long moment, Steve frowned. “What? What’s the matter?”

How could I say it? The guilt rattled in my bones, taunting. Here Steve was, giving me a sacred piece of his past. Or at least, _I_ thought it was sacred. Point was, I knew why he was doing it, and it all felt wrong. I couldn’t accept the compass knowing it was given to me on false premises.

I couldn’t live with my cowardice anymore.

“I don’t deserve it,” I whispered, voice hoarse; any louder and it’d break. I studied the compass, pressing my lips together, my heart aching. “Because I’m not — I’m not your daughter.”

It was like a gunshot, ringing through the air and leaving nothing but its chilling echo, and dead silence behind. I closed my eyes, tensing for the hit to land. I had no idea how Steve would respond. My fist tightened around the compass, already hating the idea that it would be taken away.

“I know.”

At first, I thought I misheard him. But my hearing never lied. My head jerked up, eyes snapping open. “What?”

I turned to Steve, completely caught off guard. He just sat there, elbows on his knees, looking at me evenly. And shrugged.

He just _shrugged_.

“I know,” he repeated, looking not the least bit surprised. Didn’t break my gaze, or offer an angry retort. When he realized I was still stunned, his blue eyes twinkled in laughter. “Mia, come on. I’m not an idiot. I knew as soon as I got the news that you weren’t mine. And believe me, Tony told a convincing tale. I’m sure he still believes we’re related. But clearly, we both know that isn’t the case.”

My eyes drifted from his face, staring out the window into the night sky and city lights. Jaw still hanging open, I couldn’t stop my mind from reeling. _This entire goddamn time…_

“Wait, so if you knew this whole time,” I demanded, tears suddenly gone, replaced with complete bewilderment.  I waved my hands wildly, gesturing to him. “Why even — why even bother meeting me? _Staying_? You didn’t have to do… _any_ of that. Of this! I’m not your responsibility. I mean, saying you’re my dad? That’s a big deal! Why pretend?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I was just curious,” Steve looked almost as baffled as I did, but he looked far more amused about it. “And your Aunt never would’ve let me in that door otherwise. I just wanted to meet you, another super soldier. We’re a surprisingly small demographic, in case you didn’t know.”

Huh. He had a point. I could only shake my head in disbelief. Ever since I met him months ago, I had been  _terrified_ of him finding out the truth. And for it all to come out, like this?! Unbelievable. “And it doesn’t bother you that I’ve been lying this whole time?”

“It did occur to me,” Steve admitted, but again, he shrugged. “I wondered if you were scared, and didn’t say anything because of your Aunt. And if you really did believe it, I didn’t want to put needless doubt in your head by questioning you. Either that, or you just needed an answer. Someone to be there for you. I didn’t mind. It seemed like the right thing to do.”

I huffed, falling slack against the wall. “So that’s just it then? It was just that easy?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say _easy_ . And I _do_ feel responsible for you, Mia,” Steve continued, in a more sincere tone, eyebrows pinching up. “But maybe that’s just how I am. That’s why my original point still stands. I’m with you for as long as you need me, Amelia.”

I fixed him a skeptical look. “To the end of the line?”

“To the end of the line.”

I pursed my lips, nodding slowly after taking a second to absorb all that. The long-standing terror that I felt was finally abating, replaced by something stronger. Better. Glancing up, I noticed the sky was starting to lighten; pink and orange seeping in, morning on the horizon. Even the traffic was starting to pick up, even if only by a few new cars that hadn’t been there before.

Boy, was I gonna suffer tonight.

I looked back down at the compass. It pointed away from the sun, towards me, wobbling as I tilted it to face the light. Not remembering if I said it before, I suddenly blurted, “Thank you! By the way. If you’re letting me keep this.”

“Oh, it’s all yours now.” Steve chuckled, waving his hand as if he wanted nothing to do with it anymore. Sitting back, he continued, “You know, that compass has been through a lot. Got me through a war, and a few other things. I figured you should have it; hopefully it’ll help you as much as it helped me. You know, er, keep you pointed in the right direction.”

“Or if I get lost in D.C.”

“That, too.”

Pleased, and more than a little relieved, I took the cord and slung it around my neck, the compass coming to rest down my midsection. Looking back up towards the coming day, I glanced at Steve and asked, “Think it’s too late for bedtime?”

“Too _early_ , if you ask me,” Steve said, raising his eyebrows with a smirk before getting up with a light grunt. “This is usually the time I get up.”

“Oh, my god, you’re _insane_.”

“It’s what I do,” Steve replied with a one-sided shrug, looking not the least bit concerned. Heading to the kitchen, he stretched his arms and shoulders, and I winced a little as he turned on the light. “Some coffee sounds good about now.”

“With our metabolism?”

Steve paused as he grabbed the coffee pot. “It’s the idea that counts.”

Well, I had already decided I wasn’t going to bed, and as exhausted as I was, it wasn’t the kind that begged for sleep just yet. My head was tired, but not my bones. I still felt a little restless. And as reassuring — and _enlightening —_ as that recent conversation had been, I was still not quite settled.

The fact that Steve knew this whole time, and just went with it because he’s _just that noble_ really threw me for a loop. I’d be stuck on that one for a while.

I, too, had to stretch as I rose from my spot. Curled up like that was too much like being stuck in the closet, so it felt like I had even more kinks to work out than before. “So what do you usually do at this hour? Contemplate the meaning of life?”

“I actually make some breakfast first before I do any of that,” Steve replied, with just a hint of sarcasm. When I threw him a look, he winked at me. “Cereal or pancakes?”

“Pancakes.”

“Fantastic, I’ll learn just for you.” Steve said. Then he turned to me, his features suddenly brightening. “Hey, you wanna go for a jog with me?”

I slumped against the counter on the other side of the kitchen. “Sure, why not.”

“Great.” The smile that grew on his face just then spoke only of  one thing: trouble. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

 

* * *

  
  
  
  
art by me :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost had Mia shilling for the Mission Impossible movies before I remembered that the latest two weren’t out in 2012/13. Also, if you haven’t seen them, you should watch them (skip the 2nd one, no one needs it).


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry I keep writing these long ass chapters. They seem to get even longer with each one I write… I’m worried about the pacing tbqh lmao. But! Exciting stuff planned for next chapter :D

**Chapter Eight  
**

# ✮

* * *

The sun was just starting to peek over the horizon as I sat on the front stoop, stretching out my legs. It was nice to be wearing clean clothes, and I was thankful that I had the foresight to bring my exercise gear. After being constrained in jeans for too long, it was nice to wear leggings. 

The sensation of being able to _move_ again sent a jolt of energy, anticipation through me. I was ready to _go_.

Steve was nearby, leaning against the low wall and checking his phone. Around us, the world was beginning to wake up. Birds chirped, flitting between the trees and bushes. A car or two rolled by but the neighborhood was still very quiet at this hour. Any shop or business that wasn’t a gas station would still be closed. A dog barked in the distance, echoing over the still rooftops, stars fading in the sky above. 

“So where are we heading?” I asked, checking to make sure my own phone was secured in the side pocket of my leggings. The way I tended to run, there would be no survival for my phone if it came flying out. 

“Lincoln Memorial,” Steve replied, tucking his phone away before looking west, and pointing. “The park’s in that direction, about two miles. I figured we could race it.”

That caught me off guard, and I hesitated as I stepped down to the sidewalk. “Race it?”

“Yeah, you know, see who gets there first,” Steve replied, with an all too casual glance at me, folding his arms. As if challenging teenagers in feats of speed was something he did all the time. Seeing the look on my face, Steve smirked and added, “What, you’re not up for it? I’ll even throw in ice cream if you win.”

“What? I never said that!” Now I was a little peeved, and bounced on the balls of my feet. The ice cream was just a bonus. “We go on the count of three.”

“Alright, alright, just making sure,” Steve chuckled, throwing up his hands in a gesture of peace. “Had to know you weren’t afraid of losing to a ninety-year-old man.”

“Oh, please,” I rolled my eyes, then noticed my shoe was untied. “We’ll see about that…”

As I was bending down to tie my shoe-lace, I heard a rush of footsteps. Startled, I looked up.

Steve was already taking off running. 

“What the — Hey! Wait!” I shouted, scrambling to finish my shoelace before stumbling to my feet. Steve wasn’t stopping; in fact, he was picking up speed. Bewildered, I nearly tripped over myself going after him. “You didn’t count to three yet!” 

“Wasn’t part of the deal!” 

“ _Cheater_!” Realizing I’d been played, I finally took off, charging.

All I got in response was laughter. Steve apparently didn’t feel the least bit sorry about his opportunism, which only served to egg me on. Steve was already a block ahead of me, while I was still finding my stride. 

Two miles. Steve had a head start, but I still had two miles to catch up. Surely that’d be enough…

Turns out two miles is a lot shorter when you can run like a super soldier. 

We had made it down another block, Steve still ahead, when he looked over his shoulder at me. “Looking a little out of breath there!” 

I gritted my teeth and threw myself forward into an all-out sprint. At the very least, his teasing had the intended effect of making me push myself harder.  I was chiding myself for giving Steve too much credit; clearly, he wasn’t all ‘fair game’ as I thought he would be. 

The next time Steve would turn his head to look at me, it would be just as I flew past him. “Hey —”

“Better pick up the pace, old man!” Having finally caught my wind, I breezed right past him 

“Now _that’s_ just uncalled for!” Even then, he was grinning, and as he pressed harder to catch up with me, I found myself smiling, too. Laughing, even. 

It would only strike me then. For the first time, Steve and I were having _fun_. 

We tore into the park like bats out of hell. I could only imagine what we might’ve looked like to any passerby; two freaks sprinting at inhuman speeds. It was hardly the light jog I had assumed this would be. But the reality was all the better. 

By the time the Lincoln Memorial came into view through, I still had the lead, if by a smaller margin. Seeing it, however, gave me that extra burst of energy. I hit the steps running, and by the time I’d reached the top, I’d slow down, before flopping down on the marble floor. 

Steve, right behind me, came to a stop a few steps below, hands on his knees. With slightly wheezy laughter, he said, “Gotta admit, I didn’t see that one coming.” 

“What? Me winning?” I said, panting. I tried to go for a nonchalant pose, but ended up lying on my back, appreciating the cool stone soaking through the back of my shirt, wicking away the sweat. “A-ain’t nothing but a… but a thing…”

I, too, was surprised. I didn’t really need proof that Steve was bigger and stronger than me, because — well, he was. He had at least a hundred pounds, if not more, on me. Perhaps being smaller, less bulky, had an advantage I hadn’t considered before. Of course, did that ever stop me from taking a silly bet? Absolutely not. 

Tilting my head back against the floor, up towards the upside-down Lincoln statue sitting in his throne. “That ice cream is so mine.”

When Steve offered me a hand, I took it and helped myself up. Instead of being exhausted by that run, I felt invigorated. Over the Memorial pond, the sun was starting to rise a little higher, just peeking over the treetops, casting its golden rays across the city.

“Oh, there he is!” A quick tapping on my arm, and I looked over to see Steve suddenly hiding behind one of the columns. Startled, I looked down towards the walking path, and spotted a man jogging below. 

From what? I threw Steve a strange look and stood where I was. Dressed in shorts, basic jogging gear, with dark skin and a close shave, the guy seemed pretty average, as far as I could figure. Aside from maybe the Airforce logo on his shirt, nothing out of the ordinary.

I squinted slightly. It was a little too far to make out any specific details about the man, and he was too far away to notice me. “Is that your friend?”

“Yep, that’s him,” Steve said, waiting until the man had turned his back to us, heading down one length of the pond, did he turn to me and say, “Hey, Mia, I got an idea. You in?”

“What kind of idea?” I asked, a little hesitantly. Steve’s last idea was playing a fast one on me for some ice cream, and I won out of sheer spite (among other things). Judging by the mischievous smile pulling across his face, I had a feeling this might be something along the same lines.  

After Steve was done explaining, my eyebrows shot up. Least to say, I was a little confused. “Are you sure he’s okay with that?”

“What? Of course he is,” Steve replied. He nearly bounced — _bounced_ — with enthusiasm. “He loves it! Don’t worry.”

I still had reservations, but followed without complaint as Steve led the way down the steps. 

The man was still jogging alongside the pond. Steve took off first, picking up speed fast. I did as he instructed, counting to five before going after him. It wasn’t a sprint like we had been doing before, but certainly it was a faster gait than anything a normal human could do. 

Likewise, Steve’s footsteps must have caught the man’s ear, who just called out without turning his head, “Oh, come on, not this again —”

“On your left!” Steve said as he raced past the man.

The man didn’t stop running, just grumbled, “Every goddamn time —” 

He wasn’t done before I tore past on his other side. “On your right!”

“ — _Gah_!” The man faltered, caught by surprise, and stared at me as I ran past him. Raising his voice, the man shouted after us, “What the hell? There’s _two_ of you now?!”

Steve had come to a stop at the end of the pond, bent over. Not out of breath from exertion, but from _laughter._ I caught up with him there, unable to fight my own amusement any longer, and had to sit down so I didn’t fall over myself. The man, looking greatly disgruntled, came in last at a fast walk before stopping. 

He threw each of us a glare, hands on his hips. “Oh, ha-ha. Yeah, huck it up. Make fun of the slow little human, so hilarious.” Although he looked annoyed, there was a quirk to the man’s lips that said he might’ve been a little amused himself. Jerking a thumb at me, he said, “Yo, Steve, you didn’t tell me you got a sidekick now.”

This caught me by surprise. Did this man know? I cut a curious look at Steve, who had already straightened and held up his hands. “No, no, she’s family. Sam, meet Mia. Mia, Sam.”

“Mia, huh?” Sam offered his hand to me, looking a little skeptical, but it seemed light-hearted. He smiled. “Sam Wilson. Nice to know this big guy ain’t alone in the world.”

“Right,” _He definitely had to know_. Not like I hadn’t made it obvious tearing past him at a hundred miles an hour. Probably could’ve been more subtle about it. Wanting to take this conversation off me, I quickly said, “So, you’re his jogging partner?”

“Ha! Sense of humor, very nice,” Sam let out a short laugh, pointing at me. Folding his arms, Sam just shook his head in amusement. “No, I only _wish_ I was fast enough to be his jogging partner.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t sell yourself short,” Steve replied, but I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. The air between the two seemed to be jovial, light-hearted. “Who else is going to keep track of how fast I’m going?”

“You see, he bullies me,” Sam said to me with a knowing look. “And he keeps getting away with it because so far, no one’s powerful enough to stop him.”

“If it makes you feel better,” I said with a grin. “I just beat him in a race. He’s not as fast as he looks.”

“Whoa, now, I wouldn’t go _that_ far —” Steve chuckled, raising his hands as if to stop that line of thinking.

“No shit!” Sam paid him no mind at all, looking incredibly pleased by this news. “Finally, someone faster than Captain America. I’ll be damned.”

A look had crossed Steve’s face, like perhaps he was reconsidering this. That putting the two of us together might have been a mistake.

Maybe it was. I knew I was enjoying myself now. To think I had been hesitant to meet Steve’s friend, starting with the little joke, had turned out much better than I thought it would. To Sam, I said, “He owes me ice cream now. You want in?”

“Hell yeah! ‘Bout time I earn a little for my own suffering.” Sam replied with a grin, clapping his hands together in anticipation.

Steve glanced at me, looking dead inside. “You’re doing this on purpose now, aren’t you.”

In the end, Sam would not let go of the ice cream idea, so Steve eventually caved. Sam also knew of a location conveniently nearby, and as we headed over, spent the whole time gloating. He would then spend ten minutes in the ice cream parlor mulling over the dozens of flavors, only to change his mind again, just to irk Steve.

Sometime in the middle of it, I got worried if it had gotten too far, but I caught Steve’s gaze as we waited behind Sam, and he shot me a wink.

Everything was fine.

“So, Mia, has Steve here told you what his day job is yet?” Sam would ask as we languished outside on park tables. Sam had a massive sugar cone filled with scoops of sherbet; of the three of us, it had been the most expensive one. Probably on purpose. “Or whatever it is he does that pays for these beautiful cones of breakfast ice cream?”

“Nope.” I replied. I had a much smaller cone; French vanilla drizzled in, what else, honey. It was still early morning, hardly the time to get ice cream (the shop workers looked a little surprised but, hey, they were open). Still, I had likely already burned all the calories I had eaten for breakfast, so this was more than a welcome treat.

“See, me neither,” Sam pressed a hand to his chest, feigning deep offense. Steve made a noise of protest, but Sam ignored him. “You think he’d trust me, his only real friend, but _nooo_ … He’s just a man of secrets.”

“Right now, I’m a man of regrets,” Steve muttered, observing his strawberry ice cream with a glum look.  
                
His only friend? A part of me wanted to think Sam was only being facetious; but from what I’d seen of Steve, he lived a very lonely life. Maybe it was true. If that was the case, I wondered what it was about Sam Wilson in particular that cottoned on to Steve so well.

Licking some honey that had dripped onto my hand, I asked, “What do you do, then, Sam?”

“Me? I work at the VA. You know, a real job,” Sam cast a shit-eating grin to Steve, elbowing him, before turning back to me. “Anonymous therapy meetings, everyone sits in a circle and shares their feelings, honest talks, hard truths, that sort of thing. I keep inviting your old man here, and he says he’ll show, but then he never does.”

“In my defense,” Steve interjected, lifting a finger. “One of those dates was your birthday, Mia.”

I snorted, and Sam just rolled his eyes. “Oh, okay, _excuse me_ , Dad of the Year. What about all those other times, huh?”

“I was busy.”

“You’re _always_ busy.”

“You’re kind of a jerk, you know that?” Steve cut Sam a look.

“And yet, you still tolerate me,” Sam said with a flourish of his hand. “Just be honest, you’re worried my greatness will rub off on your kid.”

Steve looked to Sam, then to me, then back to Sam again. “Oh, trust me, she doesn’t need your help.”

Hearing their banter back and forth made me smile so much it was starting to hurt. Although they were taking the piss out of each other, I could tell by the cheeky looks and the sarcastic replies that they weren’t really on each other’s nerves. It was, in fact, the first time I’d ever seen Steve so relaxed.

“I bet,” Sam smirked, cocking an eyebrow. “I already know how annoying an adult super soldier is, I can’t imagine how awful some hyperactive a teenager would be. I do not envy you, friend.”

“Hey!” I said, mildly affronted.

“She’s not so bad,” Steve winked at me again. “Most of the time.”

“Yeah? What’s the worse part? Too much spending or the boyfriends?”

“I’m right here, you know.” I tried to butt in, but realized only too late that they had ganged up on me. Oh, how the turn tables.

“Bed time, actually.” Steve replied casually, swallowing the last of his cone before bunching up the napkin and tossing it into a trashcan twenty feet away. Score. “Having the damndest time making her fall asleep.”

“Oh, I hear that…”

“Excuse me,” I said, leaning in just so they could look at me. When they did, I raised my eyebrows and said, “I’m just following Steve’s example.”

“Oo! Ouch,” Sam laughed, while Steve just leaned back and ran a hand over his face. Sam just shook his head, clapping Steve on the shoulder. “She gives as good as she gets. You really do have your hands full. And! I’d love to help out with that, but I gotta head to work. Hey, maybe this time, you’ll actually show up?”

As Sam stood up, he turned and tried to fist bump Steve. When Steve just sat there, puzzled, Sam stole a side glance at me, leaned in and stage-whispered, “I don’t think he’s ready for that one yet.”

Steve frowned slightly at my snicker, but it slid away into an easy smile as he clasped Sam’s hand in a handshake. “Heh, we’ll see. It was nice seeing you, Sam.”

“You two, dude,” Sam returned the handshake heartily, and as he headed towards the street, he turned and finger-gunned me. “And good meeting you, Mia! Keep your old man on his toes for me, will ya?”

“Till the day I die!”

Sam grinned, giving me a thumbs up as he began to jog down the street, and out of sight. “That’s what I like to hear!”

 

* * *

# ✮✮✮

* * *

The American History Museum was on the other side of the Washington Memorial,

From where we stood by the long rectangular Reflecting Pond. One end of the pond lied the Lincoln Memorial; to the West, another I wasn't familiar with.

I hadn't initially meant to stop there, but at first I didn't know what it was. A small oval pool surrounded by 56 pillars and two triumphal arches had immediately caught my attention, and Steve made no complaint as we took a slight detour to check it out.

It wasn't until we were actually within did, I realize it was the World War II memorial. I knew DC had one, but until now I never realized this was what it looked like. The Vietnam Memorial had a much stronger image in my head, as far as distinctive visuals go. But this one had its own distinct aesthetic, the silent pillars with its dark metal wreaths, the arches commemorating each theatre of war. On the west side, with the Lincoln Memorial behind it, sat a long-curved wall covered in thousands of gold stars. 4048 to be exact, when I glanced at a nearby plaque.

It was filled with more, smaller words that ended up distracting me, trying to read through and giving me a headache. Sensing my struggle, Steve spoke quietly next to me, "One for every hundred lives we lost in the war."

"Oh," I withdrew from the plaque, feeling a silly for not just having asked him. The way Steve said it, it sounded like he'd been here before, knew what each symbol and what each pillar stood for. He probably did. "Why is it called the Freedom Wall?"

Steve pointed down to a spot directly in front of our feet. Large letters engraved into the marble ground before us.

I read it aloud, mostly to myself in order to help parse through each word. "Here we mark… the price of freedom."

We didn't share many words here. I wasn't really sure what to say, to be honest. The memorial itself had left me standing at the bottom for a long minute, shaken by a feeling, an experience I couldn't comprehend. Could never comprehend. Here and there I noticed other people milling about. Some were just taking in the atmosphere; others were laying down flowers at certain pillars or at the arches. Older folk, quiet and in small, tightly knit groups.

I wondered if Steve felt the same way I did, or maybe he had some deep wisdom or knowledge that set him apart. This was  _his_  war, the people who these stars represented had been  _his_  friends; which was why I hesitated to ask.

Of course, I didn't have to.

"Daunting, isn't it?" Steve finally asked, his tone soft so as not to disturb the somber atmosphere. The air was quiet here, aside from bird calls. People held low conversations, and there really wasn't much humor or laughter going around.

It felt like treading on forbidden territory.

"Yeah," I said, craning my head up to see the top of the wall, so high that even someone like me would have trouble reaching. "I never realized how… _much_  it was. How many were involved. In APUSH they talk about the four-hundred-and-eight-thousand killed in action, but I just…"

"It just sounds like another statistic." Steve finished for me. Somehow, he knew exactly what I meant, and put it into words better than I ever could.

I bowed my head. "Yeah."

A hand on my shoulder, and I looked up to see Steve giving me a somewhat rueful smile. "It's alright. History's a lot different when its just words off a page."

They were comforting words; a validation that I was allowed to feel this way, that it wasn't wrong. At least, that's what I hoped. "How do you… handle it?"

It was probably not the most elegant way to put it, or even really specified what I meant. I wanted to know how Steve felt, seeing the result of his efforts, the efforts of a country he grew up in. Something that he missed, in the end.

That one of those stars represented him, too.

Steve didn't answer right away, and I hoped I hadn't royally screwed up. But when he spoke again, it was thoughtful, if somewhat hesitant. "I don't know. Its not always… clear to me. But I try to comfort myself with the knowledge that these people knew what they were fighting for. They had a choice, they didn't have to, but they did it anyways."

"Oh." I said again, my voice dropping to a murmur. I couldn't look away from the wall as he spoke, or the silence that followed after Steve's words. When I looked back to him again, I was startled to find Steve no longer standing next to me, but twenty feet away. Back turned slightly towards me, his head was down and he gazed into the small pool in front of the wall, the blue sky reflecting in the rippling water.

In the back of my mind, I wondered who it was he saw in there.

Honestly, I was more than a little relieved to finally reach the museum. The somberness had been a stark contrast to the fun I had earlier this morning. The day was beginning to warm up now, as the sun rose closer to noon.

I was still mulling over our run-in (ha) with Sam Wilson; as genial as it was, I had come to the realization that Sam probably knew as much about Steve as I did. Maybe even less. Even with his only friend, Steve kept Sam at an arm’s length.

It took me months just to end up where I was now with Steve, and even this was an extremely recent development. I not only realized I was having fun, _with_ Steve, but I actually enjoyed this time with him more than I ever had before. To think I had been so terrified that being honest with him would have brought it all crashing down.

When, in fact, honesty was just the thing I needed.

It was a good feeling. A _great_ feeling, really. Was Steve my dad? No. But that didn’t change the fact that, deep down, I still needed him. I didn’t really know _why_ , but I knew that if he wasn’t here, I’d be the worse for it.

And yet, the question remained.

What _was_ Steve’s job?

It was such an infuriating topic that I was more focused on that than paying attention to where I was going, heading up the steps to the museum.

So distracted, in fact, I didn’t notice the person heading my way as I passed through the doors.

I had just stepped inside when my shoulder bumped into someone else. I only happened to glance at them out of the corner of my eye when the apology began its way past my lips, when I recognized him. 

“— Dmitri?” My apology cut short, I came to a complete stop, utterly stunned.

“Mia?” He, too, turned to look at me, eyes widening when I said his name. Indeed, Dmitri was standing right there next to me, having just been caught in the midst of passing through the front doors of the museum. His shock instantly turned to a grin. “W-what are you doing here?”

“I was just visiting my —” My tongue caught in my mouth as I was heavily aware Captain America was here. Would Dmitri recognize him, even in plainclothes? “My Steve!”

“You’re here visiting your Steve?” Dmitri furrowed his brows at my braindead sentence. His eyes glanced to Steve, who now stood right behind me. 

“Hi,” Steve said, giving a tiny wave from behind me. “I’m Steve.”

“This is my friend, Dmitri. I told you about him, remember? I used to tutor him last year.”

“Oh, I remember,” Steve smiled easily, offering a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet another of Mia’s friends.”

“H-Hello,” As Dmitri stared at Steve, then his hand, I watched his face carefully for any sign of recognition. But as he slowly lifted his hand to take Steve’s, he just seemed more taken aback than alarmed or excited. “Sorry, if I’d known I’d run into you today, I would’ve worn better clothes…”

He was just in jeans and a shirt — which was much more casual and appropriate than the jogging gear we were still in, I thought. At first, I was still reeling at Dmitri’s presence, wondering how such a coincidence could transpire. Then I remembered what he had told me on my birthday — that he’d be returning to the States in March. How could I have forgotten?

I had just opened my mouth to reassure him, when the doors opened again and a feminine voice cut me off. “Alright, I found my notebook. Come, Dmitri, the driver’s waiting — oh.” 

Diana Hawkins arrived in an announcement of clicking heels and swishing dress. She came to an abrupt when her eyes landed on me, just as she was tucking a small blue moleskin into her purse. Dressed impeccably as ever in a white linen dress and Louboutin heels, she had an absolutely arresting glare. Although the air was cool inside the museum, there was a light sweat upon her forehead, a flush in her cheeks; she had been in a rush, anxious even, at having lost and found her notebook.

Her curious tone immediately dropped to a dead one. “Oh. Amelia. How… _lovely_ to find you here.”

I tried to return it, but my smile was equally as fake. “Oh, hi, Ms. Hawkins. I’m just here on vacation.”

“So am I!” Dmitri grinned, completely oblivious.

“Ah, well, that’s nice,” With a flick of her head, Diana Hawkins tossed a perfectly coiffed lock of hair out of her face. She laid a manicured hand on Dmitri’s shoulder, urging him forward as she headed towards the doors. “Unfortunately, we don’t have time to stay and chat. Say good-bye, Dmitri, I have an interview that can’t wait.”

“Sorry,” Dmitri said, and just as his mother pulled him through the doorway, he suddenly reached out and grabbed my hand. I started, as he leaned over and whispered, “I’m glad you’re here. I’ll call you.”

And with a smile, he disappeared out the door.

I stood there, staring through the windows as he and his mother slipped into a luxury sedan and disappeared down the road. My hand still tingled where Dmitri’s thumb had rubbed over my knuckles, warm and soft. 

“So,” Steve’s voice had me jolting back to the present. “She doesn’t like you much.”

“What?” I turned, surprised to find he was still standing next to me. Had he been there the whole time? Had he seen all of that? “Oh, yeah. Guess you could say it was loathing at first sight.”

I was surprised Diana hadn’t said anything to Steve. Or even looked his way.

Guess that interview was pretty important.

“The kid seems to like you a lot, though,” Steve commented, as we finally turned and headed deeper into the main hall. “You failed to mention that last time.”

A flush bloomed across my cheeks and I almost walked into a marble column when I turned into the next hallway. “Oh —! Uh, yeah, no, he’s just, ah, just a friend.”

“Just a friend?” Steve asked, and while I couldn’t look at him, I could just _hear_ the smirk on his face. “Does he know about you? About the …” he paused, seemed to notice we were surrounded by dozens of people. “Your condition?”

“No,” I struggled to come up with a way for him to drop this subject immediately. It seemed Steve was only teasing, but the pulling in my gut said there was a bit of gravity to this talk, too, if I let it go too far. “He’s not — I mean, I just don’t know how to tell him yet. I don’t want to scare him and he’s, you know, he’s just a friend.”

If only I could keep saying it, Steve would believe me.

“So no shenanigans between you two?” Steve pressed, in that all-too-easy, light tone parents used when trying to broach deeper topics with teenagers. I knew the tactic all too well; Aunt May was a master of it, and far more subtle. “ _Just_ friends?”

Getting annoyed, I retorted, “Yeah. The same way you and Kate are friends.”

That did the trick. Steve cast me a look that said _Well, then._ And acquiesced with a humble shrug. I smiled, falling at ease. Thank god.

It hit me then. I wondered if it was too presumptuous of me to assume his job was the reason for Steve’s loneliness, that it was so secret, so dangerous that he couldn’t afford personal relationships. What if that wasn’t true? What if it was because he just didn’t _want_ friends? Maybe he didn’t know how. Or maybe he was scared.

I turned my attention back to the foyer, picking up a map from a nearby kiosk and glancing at the different exhibits. It took me a hot minute to parse through the tough font and complex words, but I figured it out eventually. “Huh. Yours isn’t on here.”

“What? You mean the Captain America exhibit?” Steve tilted his head, but didn’t reach for the map. He wore a baseball cap as his best disguise and I was a little mad that it was actually working. No one here seemed to realize that Captain America was standing right there in front of them. “That’s because it’s not here, it’s in the Air and Space Museum.”

“What? That doesn’t make any sense. Why is it there?”

Steve just shrugged. “Don’t ask me, I wasn’t a consultant. Wait, is that why you wanted to come here? You thought it was here?”

“Well, yeah,” I said, cursing myself for not looking it up earlier, for exact location details. All the bullying opportunities, wasted.

“You know you could just ask me what you want to know, Mia.”

 _What I want to know isn’t in the history books_. I wanted to say, but bit back those words. It was too close a reminder to what he had said to me earlier, about history not being the same on the page. Maybe I was afraid if I just asked, I’d get more than I bargained for. I saved my hide by saying, “Yeah, but it’s more fun reading it from someone else’s perspective.”

“What, to make fun of me?” Steve guessed with a suspicious look. Damn, he knew me too well.

“Whaaat, nooo…” I quickly looked around for a distraction, and headed down the first hall I saw. “Let’s go this way!”

I had hoped that we could see the Air and Space Museum after this one, but as it turned out — the American History Museum was huge in its own right, and indulging my inner completionist, I had to see all of it. I had to see the Ruby Slippers, the Hall of Music, and the other two dozen rooms they had. When noontime came around, we had only explored half of it, and Steve didn’t seem the least bothered by my desire to see everything.

One exhibit featured the scientists behind the Manhattan Project, as well as scientists brought over from World War Two. In front of the portrait and biography of Dr. Abraham Erskine, Steve had stopped and said, “I knew him, once. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be here today.”

It was a sweet sentiment, but Steve’s look was faraway, his tone equally as distant. He seemed lost in a memory, and I felt suddenly apart from that, disconnected and unable to understand. I could only look at Dr. Erskine’s portrait and assume his character, while Steve already knew. “What was he like?”

“Hm?” Steve jolted, as if pulled out of a reverie. He blinked down at me, then said, “Oh. He was a good man. A wise one. Gave me the words I live by today.”

I frowned, curious. “And what’s that?”

A soft smile played at his lips, and Steve tapped my collarbone gently. “To stay who you are — not a perfect soldier, but a good man.”

That took me by surprised, and for a long minute I couldn’t speak. In fact, I couldn’t think of what to say for quite a while, at least until we passed through the hall of presidents and I finally found a way to break the somberness in my mind with a bit of dumbassery.

Pulling at Steve’s sleeve to get his attention, I pointed at a portrait of George Washington and asked, “Did you know him, too?”

Steve looked taken aback, even baffled, up until he saw the look on my face. “Oh. Because I’m old. Very funny.”

But I wasn’t done yet. Upon seeing an image of John Rockefeller, I gasped, grabbed his arm, and said, “Oh, was he your friend, too?”

Was I being too facetious? Maybe a little, but when Steve slung an arm around my shoulder, squeezing a little and speaking a faux-tense voice, saying, “Oh, you’re a real comedian, aren’t you?” I knew he wasn’t going to give me heat for it.

Then Steve pointed at a passing group of third-graders. “Oh, look, there’s your class, Mia. Better catch up with your friends!”

“Ha-ha.” I tried to wriggle myself out of his arm, but Steve had a good grip on me at this point, and I realized that in finding something to tease him with, I’d only given Steve more ammunition. I was pretty sure I’d made this mistake before, but here I was making it again. Apparently, I was a slow learner.

Entering another room, he spotted a mother and a baby in its stroller, and pointed at it. “Oh, I should get you one of those.”

“This is revenge, isn’t it?”

“Oh, I don’t get revenge,” Steve said mildly, before mussing up my hair with his hand and ducking back when I tried to slap it away. He cast me a wicked smile, holding out his arms in a pretend show of bravado. “I get even.”

It went back and forth like that for the rest of the day, teasing back and forth — me pointing out old folks and ancient dead people, him picking out babies and asking if he should get a child leash like one parent. By the end of the day, I was finally getting tired, my egging fading away. Not only had exploring the museum drained my energy, but all that reading did, too. That was probably why we ended up there for so long, because I was too stubborn not to read every single thing.

When we got back to Steve’s apartment, it was well into early evening. Steve had suggested we take the subway back, but I was an idiot and thought walking was a great idea, until we actually did it and I felt like dying. It seemed those long hours awake at night were finally catching up to me.

The relief of entering the dark apartment, the cool, still air, was like a blessing. I made a beeline for the couch, flopping down face first while Steve flicked on the lights, and headed into the kitchen.

There was a clatter of pans and the sound of the fridge opening as he began to prepare dinner. Over the noise, he called out, “Hey, I was thinking, maybe tomorrow we can go to the Air and Space Museum. Figured you could bully me some more there.” When met with no response, Steve called out, “Mia?”

Greeted with further silence, Steve peered out into the living room, brow drawn in concern. Then his expression smoothed, chuckling softly at the sight before him.

Amelia, still lying on the couch with one arm hanging off the side, had fallen dead asleep.

Still smiling, Steve wandered over, walking softly so as not to disturb her. With a careful move, he pulled the blanket folded on the back of the couch and laid it over Amelia. It had taken him over twelve hours, but he finally got her to sleep.

 _Mission accomplished._

 


	9. Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine  
**

# ✮

* * *

I was up bright and early the next morning, ready to go.

Somehow, Steve was up before me. Impressive, considering I myself had slept for a solid thirteen hours.

And nary a nightmare. Refreshed hardly covered it. I felt like the storm had finally broken, clouds pulling away to reveal cool blue sky and bright, cleansing sunlight.

Although that might just be because that was the actual weather for today. I took the time to enjoy it as we made our way to the Smithsonian again today. Like last time we were dressed casually, Steve bringing a baseball cap with him this time. Much like how he did in New York, the hat was part of his whole hiding-in-plain-sight thing, although I wasn't sure if it was the key to it, or just the current disguise.

The first thing I did when we walked into the Air and Space Museum was head straight for the gift shop. A little premature? Maybe. But I already knew exactly what I wanted.

Steve stood outside the shop; when I walked out, wearing my new merchandise, he raised his eyebrows at me, before breaking out into a smile. "Is that what you had me waiting out here five minutes for?"

"Uh, yes," I adjusted the new hat — dark blue, a baseball cap like the one he was wearing. Only difference? The miniature symbol of Captain America's shield sewn onto the front. I grinned at him. "I figured if we're doing the whole undercover look, we might as well match. We can be twinsies!"

I inflected that last bit with an overabundance of saccharine cuteness, but only a little bit mocking. Steve's eyes drew from that hat (which I had chosen specifically for the design) back to my face, his eyebrows shooting up even higher.

"Twinsies. Right." It sounded like he didn't quite know what that word meant, but didn't ask for clarification.

"I'm just here to give you a little hell,"

"Oh, is _that_ what you're doing?" Steve feigned surprise as we began walking back to the main floor. "Sorry, I was under a different impression."

The really funny thing was that he sounded sincere. Perhaps my attempt to mildly tease and aggravate him had only accomplished the opposite. Had it been endearing? I hadn't quite meant it that way. Still, there was something oddly receptive in the way Steve looked at me just then — Flattered? Touched? — that suddenly made _me_ the embarrassed one here.

Well, that backfired.

I wasn't too salty about it; I mean, could I really complain? If Steve didn't mind me wearing a hat with his shield on it, then I must be doing something right.

And I _did_ like the hat.

The main atrium of the Air and Space museum spacious, with a glass ceiling, from which hung various air- and space-craft. I had never seen the Apollo 11 command module before — it was much smaller than I had originally thought. Lying propped on the floor, I could actually look into it. Did they really fit three people in there?

 _The Milestones of Flight_ , I discovered it was called. Above hung a white, boxy monoplane, near the orange needle-nosed Bell X-1; I only knew about it because of Ned, who loved aircraft. It was from him I had learned the Bell had been the first aircraft to break the sound barrier.

I had been studying the _Spirit of St. Louis_ overhead, when a soft, feminine voice from behind caught my attention. Looking over my shoulder, I was surprised to find Steve standing a fair distance away, his head bent low as he spoke to a redhead woman with shoulder-length straight hair, wearing a fitted leather jacket and boots that compensated for her short height. But the different look didn't stop me from recognizing her.

The air escaped me like I'd been punched in the gut.

Holy shit. It's _her_.

Her as in the woman from Stark Tower. Her as in the one of two Avengers Peter and I pissed off and escaped from that winter evening.

The Black Widow.

I didn't know her actual name, obviously, but I felt a strange sense of deja vu; that somehow, her being here wasn't just a coincidence.

Perhaps sensing she was being watched, the Widow turned her head. Her eyes immediately fell on me. I expected a look of surprise, or recognition, but her expression remained perfectly neutral. Then, slowly, her lips curved into a smile.

It was enough of an invitation for me to draw closer and join the conversation.

(Not that I needed one, anyways).

"Well, hello there," the woman said, her tone much friendlier than the last time we'd run into each other. The warmth in her words _sounded_ sincere, but I couldn't help but feel like I just stepped into the spider's web, too dumb to escape. "I was wondering why Steve had asked for a week off from work. Now it all makes sense."

The sound Steve made just then was halfway between a laugh and a cough; embarrassed, maybe a little amused, but not willing to anyone catch on. "Ah, ha-ha, yeah. Mia, this is...er, Natasha. We're, ah, colleagues."

Colleagues? As in, fellow Avenger? Something about it didn't seem quite right. I had been under the impression that, unless there was a crisis, most Avengers had their own lives to live, separate from one another.

I knew exactly three things about Natasha. That she was an Avenger, that she was a spy, and that she wasn't one I should cross lightly.

I guess four things now, since I had a name. Or a part of one.

(Was it her real name? I had my doubts).

"Oh, I know," I said without thinking. Natasha held out her hand, but I took a little too long to take it to be completely convincing. "Nice to meet you. Again."

For such a petite woman, Natasha's grip was strong. Not surprising, considering the way she grabbed me back in the Tower. Natasha just smiled back at me, appearing completely oblivious. "Oh, that's right. How's that internship with Sterling and Bosch going, by the way?"

Clever. Natasha hadn't forgotten me anymore than I'd forgotten about her. Now it was Steve's turn to glance between us, looking utterly confused. "Wait, have you two met before?"

"Not officially," I replied with a smile. Fake? Yes. But the standard poker face probably wouldn't come across so well.

I didn't really want to elaborate, and I was surprised when Natasha didn't, either. She was still watching me, though, even as I was talking to Steve; I felt like a bug under a microscope, pinned in place, helpless as I was being analyzed.

"I just wanted to apologize, actually," Natasha said, still evading Steve's questioning look. "I know we got off on the wrong foot last time. I hope we can start over, have another go at those first impressions sort of thing."

I blinked. She was ...apologizing? Color me double surprised. Natasha was avoiding any specific phrasing or context, only giving enough so that I could understand. Considering Steve was standing right here, it seemed like a lot of effort, even a risk, for someone who didn't really mean it. Why bother? She was a big-time spy, and I was small potatoes.

At the very least, it caught me off guard, leaving me bereft of what to say. I went for a half-hearted response, hoping she was being genuine and praying I wasn't being willfully naive. "...Oh, yeah, sure. I guess I should thank you, too. My Aunt really loved that trip to the Barton Resort."

This time, Natasha grinned, at once coy and thrilled, the kind of smile that made you feel like a million bucks. "Consider it a favor well-spent."

Something must have clicked for Steve, because the confusion had lifted from his face, replaced by one of contemplation. There were definitely some gears turning in there. Maybe the name Barton gave it away. "Well, I'm glad you two are getting along. Clearly I made an error keeping you two from each other."

"Clearly," Natasha repeated, casting him a smirk. Then she glanced at her watch and said, "Well, I gotta scram. Unlike _some_ , I actually enjoy my work. Maybe I'll see you guys later, hm?"

 _But will we see you_? We waved her good-bye and before I knew it, Natasha had vanished into the crowd. A turn of her body, a swish of red hair, and she was gone.

Invisible, just like Steve.

"Do I want to know?" Steve asked in an undertone as we began up the stairs.

I only shook my head, fighting a smile. "I'll tell you later."

I wasn't sure if I liked Natasha. Or even trusted her. The mention of her liking her job, implying that Steve didn't, had seemed to come off like they worked at the same place. Unfortunately, that meant nothing to me, because I didn't know what Natasha did, and I couldn't be sure if she _wasn't_ referring to her work as an Avenger.

And whatever Steve was doing, I was pretty sure it was not something the other Avengers were involved in.

The thoughts festered in my mind as we headed up to the exhibit I had been dying to see since we got here. While I still questioned the placement of the Captain America exhibit, I couldn't deny that the Smithsonian had done an excellent job in setting it up. If nothing else, they knew presentation.

The first thing that greeted you upon entering was the quote "Welcome back, Cap," from President Ellis, printed on a black wall, with a projection of a waving American flag. Next to it, beneath the painted blue silhouette of Captain America, shield and star in white contrast. Beneath it, read: _CAPTAIN AMERICA — The Living Legend and Symbol of Courage._

It took me a half a minute to parse through all that, and it left me standing there, casting Steve a look. "Wow. It's subtle."

He just chuckled and cuffed me lightly on the head, sending my hat askew. "Trust me, it gets better."

Steve kept his head down as we entered a large atrium, filled with signs and features, art painted on the walls, video footage and even artifacts behind glass. The room was surprisingly dim, with its dark walls and solemn lighting. Yet the air was alive with activity, people milling around, children playing under the guise of their favorite heroes.

If I thought Steve could be invisible before, he really was now. Surrounded by pictures and portraits of himself, by dozens of people who could recognize his image on sight, his own name plastered on every wall and plaque, Steve still managed to go completely unnoticed. No one paid him a second thought; I had initially felt self-conscious standing next to him, but soon enough I started to relax.

Huh. Maybe that hat trick really did work.

" _A symbol to the nation."_ a male narrator spoke as I wandered through the exhibit. This one had a disproportionate amount of kids, compared to the other places we went. Many were gathered around the life-sized screen images of Steve, as a scrawny young man to the full-grown super-soldier, comparing their sizes to him as the images shifted from one to another. " _A hero to the world. The story of Captain America is one of honor, bravery and sacrifice._ "

I stopped to study the small Steve, pictured in Sepia, on one wall. Text next to him compared his height and weight, before and after his transformation.

He had only been 5'4 once. There was something quite humbling to see his face on the body of a much smaller man — smaller than me, right now. My chest tightened, when I realized that had been me, too, once. Even smaller, weighing less.

" _Denied enlistment due to poor health, Steven Rogers was chosen for a program unique in the annals of American warfare."_

I noted, however, that the one thing that didn't change between the two Steve's was the expression on his face. Maybe one was more confident than the other, but they still held the same quiet conviction, the unwavering diligence that had become familiar to me these past few months.

" _One that would transform him into the world's first super soldier._ "

There was a large stage at the far back, on which stood seven mannequins, each with its own costume — behind it, a portrait of each member of the Howling Commandos. At the center, of course, was Captain America's war-time suit, with his original shield — the heater shield, made of a cheap metal, yet still somehow survived this long.  
  
" _Battle-tested, Captain America and his Howling Commandos, quickly earned their stripes. Their mission: take down HYDRA, the Nazi's rogue science division._ "  
  
I let myself get lost a little, just wandering around and taking everything in. My initial plan to tease the hell out of Steve had gone right out the window, once I was standing in the full majesty of the place.

Majesty. It seemed silly to say, and I didn't think it fit Steve quite right, but the attitude in which the exhibit and the audience seemed to regard him with couldn't be called anything less. The patriotic imagery alongside the narrative being told, gave off a strong sense of patriotism, or a sort of communal pride. It was both strange and comforting at the same time.

On a glass panel was an engraved portrait, a man with dark hair mussed by wind and battle. Serious eyes set in a frown, he looked directly into the eyes of anyone that passed; I had seen it from across the room, and something about it had me drawing closer, curious.

Alongside the panel was a short biography, also carved in glass. Beneath it, a name: James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes. Born in 1917, died 1944.

" _Best friends since childhood…"_ the male narrator spoke over the exhibit, making it easier for me so I didn't have to read the difficult paragraphs of the written biography. " _Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield."_

I knew of Bucky Barnes, from history class and grainy 1940'snews reels, but this was probably the first time I'd ever seen an image of him so large and highly rendered. Because it was glass, the portrait had no color, yet it still captured intensity of his gray-eyed stare.

 _Familiar_ gray eyes…  
  
" _With his duty as a sniper, a rifleman with skills unlike any other, Bucky Barnes often goes unseen, or unnoticed in the background amongst Howling Commando activity."_

I couldn't tear my gaze away from the portrait.  
  
" _His job often required him to hide in the treetops far away, where he could eliminate targets undetected."_  
  
From the same eyes I'd seen before.

" _Because of this, Barnes is the Howling Commando with the least amount of known video footage."_  
  
From the man on the bridge.

" _Make no mistake, however. No matter where he was, Barnes was always watching Roger's back."_

The Winter Soldier.

"... _Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in the service of his country."_  
  
My entire body went cold. A cold metal hand clamped its vice grip around my neck.

I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. I could only stare in the face of a dead man; a man who had been at Tower Bridge the day it was attacked.

A man with a metal arm, who had killed over a dozen people in the past seventy years.

The man who had stalked the halls of the Crucible like a specter made of ash and blood.

A man I had seen walking away from me six months ago in Sokovia, a rifle slung over his shoulder.

A man no one believed exists.

It wasn't possible.

It _couldn't_ be possible.

And yet…

I stared into the face of Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes — Steve's best and oldest friend — and all I saw was the man from my nightmares.  
  
Everyone surrounding me, worshiping him like a martyr.

 _It's him_.

"It's him? What are you talking about, Mia?" Someone asked; their voice sounded a million miles away. I hadn't realized I'd spoken aloud until I heard my name. "Hey there, space cadet, everything okay?"

A hand landed on my shoulder.

I nearly flew out of my socks. All at once, my consciousness slammed back into my body and suddenly all I could feel was my racing heart, the cold sweat, the shallow breathing picking up speed. I gasped inwardly, whirled around, only to find a startled Steve next to me.

He stepped back a little, eyes widening, hand lifting away. "Whoa, hey, is everything all right? You look like you've just seen a ghost."

Steve's voice had a slight joking lilt at the last sentence, but the undercurrent of sudden nervousness meant he was trying to lighten the mood. I opened my mouth but nothing came out. My gaze slipped from him to the glass panel next to me.

I had seen the Winter Soldier's entire face only once, on the bridge; more times, if you counted my memory dreams, or whatever they were. It was enough to have it imprinted in my mind forever. So although Bucky Barnes' hair was short, his face clean-shaven and lined with the sense of expression, of feeling, of _thought_ …

It was still the Winter Soldier.

Right there, watching me.

My gaze returned to Steve's, who was still waiting for me to respond. His nervous smile slipped away when he realized that it wasn't coming.

Or maybe he recognized the look on my face. The same look I had when I heard that car backfire standing in his kitchen.

"It's him," I could only say in a hoarse, terrified whisper. Everything seemed to fade into a blur. Everything except the Winter Soldier. "It's him."

The room suddenly felt too full, the air hot and heavy, crushing me with suffocating pressure. I saw the kids, the innocent kids, the families milling about, completely unaware of the danger they were in. Stumbling away from the portrait, I couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak. _He was here._

I didn't know what to do.

So I ran.

"Wh — Mia, wait!"

I heard Steve's shout but wasn't listening. All I could hear was the dozens, hundreds chattering, the bodies pressing in, all the dark shadows and corners and unseen places he could hide.

_He's here he's here he's here_

I burst out of the exhibit with such speed that I nearly sent myself over the railing on the other side.

I caught it just before, then pushed off, tearing across the upper balcony until I found the stairs. I leapt down them two, three at a time, nearly pitching head over heels at one point, before scrambling for the door. Several security guards spotted me and called out, alarmed, but they'd catch me soon enough to find out what was wrong.

In less than fifteen seconds I was out the door.

Sunlight hit me and it was like a shot to my system. Cool fresh air sucked into my lungs, wicking away the sweat that had accumulated on my skin. The new smells permeated my mind; of the tulips growing nearby, the freshly mowed grass, the faint scent of food drifting past — coffee and pastry. My frantic escape came to an end somewhere in the middle of the park — I'd slowed down along a walking path before coming to a complete stop by an empty bench.

I hunkered down on the ground, pressing my back against one side of the bench, facing away from the Air and Space Museum. Deep, shuddering breaths wracked my frame; half-way between gasp and sob, my hands on my head, tucking around into a tight fetal position.

Just trying to catch my breath. To get feeling back into my hands. My fingers tingled ominously, so I clenched and unclenched my hands, focusing on the tension in my muscles instead of the terrifying thoughts racing through my head. My throat felt raw and my heart pounded in my chest with such force it ached. _Run, run,_ it said. _Run or die._

I managed to cling to rationality, but only just. I had to fight for each moment to stay still, to remind myself to breathe

Another panic attack, but now there was no convenient closet to hide in. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the Winter Soldier; trying to kill me on the bridge, making me to shoot a man I knew nothing about.

Watching him laugh alongside Steve in an old monochrome film reel, watching their lips move soundlessly as they traded jokes and barbs.

The smile of a machine that had once been human.

A hand, reaching for me, right before I fell into a churning black river.

Nightmare mixing into awful reality. None of it felt real.

"Amelia? Amelia!"

Steve again. He'd caught up with me. Panting slightly, he dropped down to one knee next to me, an arm dropping around my shoulder and pulling me close. "Jesus, you're shaking. What happened?"

He was right. I was shivering so hard, like it was the middle of winter. But even if it was, I didn't shiver in winter temperatures.

No, the cold was already inside of me.

"What happened, Mia?" Steve asked again, quietly. My vision was a little blurry — maybe tears, maybe just shock — but I could see the urgency in his face that wasn't in his voice. Each word was carefully measured, even and soft. Like one wrong shift, and I'd shatter into a million pieces. "What did you see?"

He didn't ask me what's wrong — he already knew that. Another panic attack, another echo of trauma coming back to me. Only this time, it wasn't because of crossed wires, mistaking one stimulus for another.

This was the real thing.

"I-it's him." I whispered, stumbling over my words. The old stutter, called back by a new stroke of anxiety. It was hard to form words; the muscles in my neck and jaw were clenched so tight, and my mind so scattered in high emotions, confusion and fear. I had no idea how to form any of it into coherent words. "Him. B-Bucky. It's him."

My eyes swept out over the National Mall, skipping from one distant body to the next. My mind kept seeing every shadow, every vague silhouette, as a possible threat, a possible enemy.

" _Bucky_?" Steve frowned, baffled. "Mia, what are you talking about?"

I stared into his eyes, for a second unable to believe how he didn't understand. Steve really had no idea, did he?

Of course he wouldn't. It was all just a myth.

"The man on the bridge," I breathed, almost too afraid to say the name out loud. Like he would know, like he could hear me. "In London. It's him. The Winter Soldier."

"The Winter —" Steve shook his head, running his other hand over his face. "Bridge in London? You mean, that attack last October? Are you saying you were there, Mia?"

I could only nod dumbly, and swallowed at an errant sob. I was not going to cry. Not this time. I was too busy trying to piece it all together. "The Winter Soldier w-was there. H-He was hunting me. Us. The Crucible s-sent him. He's the one w-who trained me. He was too good. I c-c-couldn't beat him, I-I couldn't…" My failure in that battle left me rattled, and I couldn't continue for a moment. Taking a deep breath, I went on, "I had to escape."

"The Crucible," Steve repeated. Still that same, measured tone, but a new expression had crossed his face. Hardening, the edges of deep thought. "This Winter Soldier works for them? What, who is he?"

"A-an assassin," I said, nearly choking on the words as I wrapped my arms around myself. My fingers grazed against the compass hanging from my neck, and wrapped around it instinctively. In the back of my mind, I realized this was more information about my past than I had ever told Steve before. "Soviet, or u-used to be. I tried to tell SHIELD w-when they found me, b-but they just said he was a ghost. H-he didn't exist. Over two dozen possible targets, over seventy years, but never been caught. No physical proof, o-or…"

I dropped my head to my knees. More deep, shuddering breaths. My head was pounding, and nausea came and went in rolling waves. The desire to run, to keep running, to never stop running was still coursing through my blood. The only reason I didn't? Steve's arm still around me, grounding my mind and body into place.

"He's dangerous," I whispered, closing my eyes and seeing him again. "He h-has a metal arm. A red star o-on the shoulder."

I felt, rather than saw, Steve go still next to me. The way his arm tensed, stiffening, around my shoulders. The sudden lack of movement, breathing, beside me. He'd seen the tattoo on my shoulder. Until now, I had never him what it meant.

For one very long, very silent minute, Steve didn't say anything.

I wasn't sure what he would say. If he even believed me at all. But something told me he did. Just enough.

"And what does this have to do with Bucky?" he finally asked. Still the same quiet voice, now edged with wariness.

"The last I-I ever saw the Winter Soldier was right before I left Sokovia," I said, lifting my head up again. I looked over the park once more, but I could feel Steve's gaze burning into the side of my face. "That is, until today, when I walked into that room and his face next to the name Bucky Barnes."

" _What_? N-no, that's…" Steve began, but cut himself off, his mouth opening and closing helplessly for a moment. He blinked several times, squeezing his eyes shut and looking down and away. The disbelief couldn't be more apparent.

It took him several seconds to recover, and even then Steve still looked pale, shaken, disturbed. "Mia, it can't be him, y-you must be confused —"

"Confused? He tried to _kill_ me! He's the one who made me who I am!" I snarled, throwing off his arm and rounding on Steve. The sudden rage, the hurt, the desperation, released all in one go. " _I could never forget his face!_ "

Steve recoiled, caught off guard. Pain flashed in his eyes. The pain of reliving death, of it getting thrown back in your face with such callousness and disregard.

  
"Mia." His voice only became softer compared to my own, but was just as tense now. "Bucky's been dead for years."

"Yeah, and?" I demanded, breathing hard. I jammed a finger into his chest. "So were you, Steve."

He just looked at me, speechless.

Realizing I may have taken it too far, I backed off, leaning away from him and back into the side of the bench. Of course he wouldn't believe me. If Peter had died years ago and someone told me he was somehow still alive, but now an evil assassin, I wouldn't take them seriously either.

What was I expecting?

I looked away, wiping away the sudden tears that had escaped. All the rage I felt a moment ago had disappeared in an instant.

"I-I'm sorry," Aside from a slight tremble, my tone has eased, dropping to something close to dead. Unemotional. I was starting to regret ever saying anything at all. "I didn't mean… I never met Bucky. I don't know what happened. All I'm telling you is that the Winter Soldier has his face."

I tried to convince myself it was some wild coincidence. Bucky Barnes, American war hero turned Soviet assassin? Sure, he never made as much acclaim as Steve did, but his sacrifice put him a step above the rest. Why would a man who would die for his country, now be one of its greatest foreign enemies?

I mean, Jesus. I thought the Winter Soldier was _Russian_. Had he really been an American this whole time?

...Then again, wasn't I an American, too?

I had been kidnapped and made turncoat against my will. Who's to say it wasn't the same for Bucky Barnes?

Of course, it left open the possibility of another option.

That Bucky Barnes had betrayed his country of his own free will.

I didn't want to consider it. I imagined Steve wouldn't, either.

I was waiting for the final nail in the coffin, for Steve to deny it, to blow it off as wild conspiracy. Because...well, it was. I sure as hell didn't know how to explain it. I didn't have the answers. Just a tiny sliver of the truth, and not a particularly good sliver either.

But when he spoke again, his question took me by surprise. "...You said he had a metal arm. What did it look like? What kind of metal was it?"

My brows furrowed, and I studied my shoes. "I'm not sure. It could've been Vibranium, maybe — it was strong, I've seen it block bullets and knives with no scratches. Maybe cybernetic, too. I never saw how it was grafted onto him, but it matched him perfectly. He never had trouble using it."

"Grafted?" Steve tilted his head, puzzled by this word. "Like a prosthetic? He'd lost his arm?"

I could only nod and shrug. "I think so. I mean, no one ever told me how. He certainly didn't."

"Did he ever talk to you?"

I tried not to snort at that. At the very least, my smile was a weak one. "I mean, he's the one that taught me. Didn't say a lot, just what I needed to know, and nothing more. He only spoke Russian — that's how I learned."

"Did he ever give you a name?"

"His name? No." I was jumping off the cliff into deep waters — telling Steve everything, not holding anything back. Before, the idea had scared me. Now, nothing scared me more than the Winter Soldier. "He didn't have a name. Neither did I, for that matter. They only called him _солдат_ — soldier."

"And what were you called?" Steve asked, and his expression was unreadable, but there had been a slight hesitation when he said it. Like he was afraid to know the answer.

" _Cолдатка_. Means the same thing."

Steve inhaled deeply, nodding his head. Although it was hard having to say all this, I was glad he was asking these questions. He was curious, at least. Giving me a shot.

"How did he kill people? What was his specialty?"

I almost laughed, but I had no good humor left in me. "I guess a better question would be what _isn't_ he good at. He's an expert sniper, and with every other gun known to man. In close combat, you'd be lucky to survive more than a few seconds. Aside from the arm, he carries an arsenal of weapons on him at all times. Guns, knives, grenades. You disarm one thing and he pulls out another. He's completely silent, he can get in and out of places with no one ever noticing. There and gone again. No one who ever crosses him survives. He's unstoppable."

"Unstoppable," Steve repeated to himself, fingers tapping on his knee. "And until today, you had no idea he might've been someone else?"

"No. No one else did either, as far as I knew."

"But SHIELD knows about him?"

"In theory. I don't know what they have on him. Just that he's largely a myth, because the deaths attributed to him date back so far they don't believe it could all possibly be done by the same man. They use him to scare newbies with, but besides that… he's not real."

"Well," Steve heaved a sigh, rubbing his hand across his chin. "We know that's not true."

I cut him a sharp look, surprised. "...You believe me?"

Steve inhaled through his nose, leaned back until he was sitting on the ground with his knees up, rubbing his hands together. A long pause before he answered me. "I believe you when you say the Winter Soldier is real. Whatever SHIELD _thinks_ it knows, it's not enough. And whether he really is Bucky or not…"  
  
His sentence drifted off, his lips pressing thin. Steve didn't meet my eyes as his jaw worked for a moment. "...I guess that remains to be seen."

That was as diplomatic an answer as I was going to get. Carefully neutral, not revealing his opinion either way. I could only imagine what Steve was really thinking right now. Maybe he was hoping I was just crazy.

I bit my lip, wincing internally. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Steve just shook his head, the ghost of a smile on his face to put me at ease. He cast me a long look, his face tense with concern. "I'm glad you told me. That you trusted me."  
  
_Me, too_. I thought, but didn't have the will to speak. I returned the smile, if only for a moment.

"But I want you to promise me something, Mia," He continued. "Please don't run away again. I know its hard for you, but I want to help, and I can't do that if we don't stick tog —"

Just as he spoke, a ringtone interrupted him. He paused, scowling as he pulled his phone out of his pocket, read whatever message it was on the screen. Something flickered across his face — anger? Frustration? He put the phone back without a word.

"What's that?" I asked, taken aback. I had never seen Steve use his phone. As far as I knew, he hadn't received any calls or messages from _anyone_ since I'd been here. Until now, I had almost assumed he didn't have a phone at all, aside from when I had texted him.

"Work." Steve muttered. He seemed to be fighting something for a moment, moving stiffly as he settled back down. "I..I can't avoid it, I have to go."

I blinked. "W-when?"

"Now."

My heart dropped. "Oh."

So much for sticking together.

To think this entire time, I had been curious about if and when Steve's work would come up, that I can learn more about it. But, of course, it just had to come at the most inconvenient time, when I wanted nothing to do with it at the moment.

It was clear that Steve wasn't happy with this either. Taking his hat off, he ran a hand through his hair, before putting it back on with a sharp jerk. Regret made its way into his tone. "I'm sorry, Mia. I don't want to leave you, not now, not when you're feeling like this. But its —"

"An emergency?" I guessed, raising my eyebrows. I wasn't being sarcastic or mean, just… sad.

I didn't want him to leave. I didn't want to be on my own, as deceptively tempting as it might be. Although I had calmed down considerably since the initial panic, I was still deeply rattled. A tremble remained in my fingers every time I moved my hands, so I kept them tucked under my arms so he wouldn't see them. But I doubt he'd need to. I felt like I was standing on the edge of a precipice; one wrong step could send me pitching back into the void.

"Yeah." Steve replied with a huff, perhaps more frustrated with himself than anything else at the moment. "I'll bring you home, and when I come back, we can talk more about it, if you want."

 _If I want._ Did I want to? I felt like I had said enough already. More than enough, really. The main fact had been put across: Bucky Barnes was the Winter Soldier.

The question: what happens now?

"Mia." My name again, followed by a hand on the shoulder. I thought it'd be another one of those reassuring gestures, but was surprised when Steve drew me in, thick arms wrapping around me in a gentle, but firm, embrace. "You're going to be okay. I promise, I won't let him hurt you again."

The words in the same measured tone as always, yet each one hit me in a new way, until it felt like my heart was completely exposed. To say I was touched would be underselling it. Burying my face into his shoulder, I took in a deep, shaking breath, trying to force back the tears again.

Not as successful this time. But I let myself believe that what Steve said could be true.

If anyone could stop the Winter Soldier, it'd be Steve.

Of course, if the Winter Soldier didn't kill him first.

The negative thoughts were an unwelcome presence in an otherwise comforting moment. But I couldn't shake them away; I was too scared of the possibility that Steve _couldn't_ take on the Winter Soldier that I didn't want to think of what would happen if that were the case.

Another sob slipped out and Steve pulled me in tighter, warm hand rubbing my back. As my fingers dug into the back of his shirt, he shushed me gently. "Shh, you're okay, you're going to be fine...You're safe, I promise."

Steve should've known better than to make a promise he couldn't keep.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten  
**

# ✮

* * *

"So, Mia," Kate said, as she tossed a bowl of salad. "How was the museum today?"

I sat at the table in the center of Kate's kitchen, my hands lying limp on the table. There was only the barest tremble in my fingers now, since Steve had dropped me off here.

"It was fine."

My words were clipped, quiet. While Kate's apartment was not too different from Steve's, it was still strange and uncomfortable to sit in. It was much more...cutesy. The tablecloth had a bright, garish pattern. A lot of decorative pillows, here and in the living room, covered in sequins and ribbons and what-not. A line of ceramic children with cherubic faces lined the top shelf of a nearby cabinet, as well as the side tables in the living room. Next to the framed picture of her nursing diploma, Kate had a 'Live Laugh Love' sign made of hammered copper.

It wasn't exactly my taste.

Kate, dressed in a simple white shirt and jeans, cast me a look over her shoulder. Her face was fixed in a sympathetic frown. "A little disappointed?"

How did she know? I tried to keep my hackles from rising. I didn't like that she had read me so easily, but then again, I was an exposed nerve right now. A hot mess, as one might say, after the museum trip. I was good at hiding it, maybe, but not enough to keep everything from her. "...Yeah, I guess."

Disappointed that Steve had to leave for work, even though he'd said it wouldn't interrupt this week. Disappointed that it had to happen right after another panic attack.

Disappointed that I got stuck with a babysitter.

We had run into Kate on the stairs; she had a day off, and had offered to look after me when Steve explained to her, in as few details as possible, that he had to work and couldn't stay to watch me.

Like I was some invalid.

Not that I was angry at Steve, no. He was doing what he thought was best, and leaving me with someone he trusted, a neighbor, was the answer.

But I didn't want to be in a stranger's apartment. I didn't want to be alone with her. I certainly didn't want to maintain a conversation with her when I already felt so exhausted.

The aftermath of my panic attack was a long, quiet walk back to the apartment. We considered the subway only briefly — when the passing screech of a train made all the blood drain out of my face, Steve made the executive decision to take the scenic route.

He had asked me more questions — mostly about Bucky, for obvious reasons, but all I could see was the Winter Soldier. I'd been unable to answer them. Or just didn't hear them at all. I had gone that entire walk hugging myself, shoulders hunched, wound up like a spring ready to launch into the stratosphere at the wrong touch.

That had eased somewhat, but only because now I had something else unpleasant to think about. It was hard to say if Kate and her apartment were a welcome distraction or not.

It was a deceptively small situation that threatened to overwhelm me, simply through basic interaction I wasn't sure I could perform at this moment.

"Well, I know it's not how you expected things to turn out, but I just want you to know that you're welcome here, Mia," Kate said, bringing the finished salad to the table. She forked it over into two smaller bowls, and handed one to me. "I hope you like Caesar salad. I tend to make extra, for my lunches at the hospital."

I wasn't exactly the biggest fan of salad. The low calories did not satisfy me, and the taste was never as enjoyable as I'd like. Still, I didn't complain as I took the bowl; Kate was just being a good hostess. It reminded me of what Aunt May would do, and I couldn't blame her for that.

As Kate dug in, I picked at the leafy greens, having lost my appetite a long while ago. Uninterested, bored, I turned my attention back to my surroundings.

The apartment was nice and spacious, despite the decor, and I thought to myself how a place like this in New York would cost a fortune. Was living in DC more or less expensive than Manhattan? I knew Steve could afford this place because whatever his secret job was, it definitely paid well, as anything clandestine probably would. I wondered, vaguely, how Kate could pay for this on a nurse's salary.

"Is DC suiting you so far?" Kate's question broke me out of my reverie.

I blinked, taking another gander at my salad and again unable to find the will to eat. "It's alright."

"Been out exploring?"

"A little."

"It must be nice to spend the holiday with your family."

"Yeah."

Kate pressed her lips together. My monosyllabic answers were giving her nothing to work with. I wasn't  _trying_ to be frustrating, but my head wasn't here. Every time I closed my eyes I was back at the Crucible. But I was present enough to feel bad about it, and rather than suffer through more, I thought about excusing myself. At least save us both the embarrassment of an awkward conversation.

But before I could, Kate pressed on. "So, where do you go to school?"

I was still trying to distract myself, counting the number of decorative pillows I saw; I could feel her gaze on me. As if to prompt me, Kate added, "I hear Midtown's pretty prestigious. Your family must be proud."

I looked back to her, caught off guard. "How did you know that?"

"Hm? Right, Steve mentioned it to me once," Kate shrugged, then took another bite of food.

"Oh," I said, brow furrowing. All of a sudden, I forgot about the Crucible. That new information had surprised me. I doubted I could hide my sudden unease, tensing in my shoulders.

"So what do you study there?"

"Just, you know," I didn't feel comfortable really explaining my life to her. I knew Kate was just trying to make small-talk, but it was hard to reciprocate. "Basic school stuff. Chemistry, calc, English. I take AP classes, even if its more to read."

"Don't like reading, huh?" Kate smirked at that, as if I was subject to the typical teenage laziness. "The usual procrastination, I bet."

"Something like that," I decided to say, with a slight smile of my own, but without the humor. I wasn't in the mood to explain my dyslexia, and accidentally evoke any sympathy or pity. "Where did you go to school?"

"University of Vermont. I got my first job working ICU and PICU floors at Metro General before coming here. That had to have been about...seven years ago, I think."

I almost did a double-take. "Really?"

"Yeah, why?"

Metro-General was where I used to go every time I was sick — I knew the PICU wing, the doctors and the nurses and the patients, like the back of my hand.

By all accounts, Kate and I would've been there at the same time.

"I used to go to Metro-General a lot," I said, pursing my lips. "I was really sick when I was younger, so I was always in the PICU. But I don't think I ever saw you there."

Kate blinked, looking as equally surprised as I felt. She dropped her fork for a moment, appearing to mull that over. But the easy look on her face never faded, and she just said, "Huh, what a coincidence. Or maybe it's ironic? But I guess that's just New York," she chuckled, shaking her head. "So many people all in one place and you might never see run into each other, right?"

I smiled back, but it didn't reach my eyes. "Right."

I glanced away, flattening my hands against the table to stop them from twitching or clenching. I took in an array of photo frames arranged on a nearby counter, Kate and colleagues in scrubs. They were the only ones I could spot in the apartment. "Do you have family here?"

"Oh, no, my parents died when I was young. I was raised by my grandmother until she passed away, too. Became an emancipated child and worked my way up from there," Kate said this all with an easy smile, a one-shouldered shrug. "It hasn't been easy, but I've made my way for myself, found my happiness. I know that's what my family would want. I try to keep them in my heart."

"You don't seem to have any photos of them," I remarked, still gazing about the room, but always keeping Kate in the corner of my eye. For someone who seemed to love her family so much, she didn't have a lot of keepsakes of them.

"Oh," Kate said, the smile on her face flickering. "I haven't unpacked them yet."

The switch in her tone was small, but noticeable. A little stiffer, a little stilted. Lacking the natural, almost lyrical tone she had before, lighthearted and humorous.

I couldn't resist. "Now who has the usual procrastination?"

Something in her expression changed. It was almost imperceptible. But since my panic attack, I was on high alert for even a single dust molecule out of place. I didn't fail to notice the way her eyes narrowed, just a smidge, the pinch of her brows, the way her smile looked more like a smirk.

Playing the same game now.

Kate continued briskly, as if that awkward moment was completely forgotten, "Sorry, I didn't mean to dump that all on you. I tend to overshare, I guess."  
  
"How long have you been living here?" I asked, deciding to ignore it. I kept my tone neutral, turning back to my meal. A bright red cherry tomato caught my interest and I chased it with my fork. My eyes remained on Kate, unblinking.

"About ten months. Why?" Kate blinked. Maybe my staring disconcerted her, or maybe she didn't expect the passive-aggressiveness. Still, she didn't hesitate.

"Oh! Just curious." Raising my eyebrows, as if charmed by this information, I plucked up the cherry tomato with my fingers and popped it into my mouth. "So you and Steve moved in right around the same time then, huh?"

"I suppose" Kate's smile faded a little, perhaps detecting that my politeness was feigned. Or perhaps I was getting too close. Her demeanor was a lot less soft when it felt like you were playing chess with words. "Right before, actually."

"Wow. What a coincidence." With a great bite, the cherry tomato burst in my mouth, and I chewed thoughtfully.

"It definitely is," She continued, still casual, although her tone had become cool. She picked at her salad but was watching me, leaning with one arm on the table. "But I can't complain. Steve's been a good neighbor; I've gotten a lot less luck than this in the past. I actually had something to ask you. How do you know Steve again? I don't think he ever said."

Hm, turning the tables on me now. And a hard one, too. I didn't think I could avoid the question without being completely obvious. I decided to remain conversational.

"He probably didn't, but that's Steve, you know?" I said, sitting back in my seat with my hands still on the table. "He's a private guy. Only likes to share with people he knows he can trust."

I didn't have to put in that little jab, but I wanted to make it a point so that Kate knew I knew that Steve couldn't trust her.  _Shouldn't_ trust her.

"Yeah, that's what I like about him. Steve expects the same level of trust that he gives us. The kind of man you know you can rely on." Kate's smile was sweet. Too sweet. "But you didn't answer my question, Mia."

"I thought Steve explained it pretty well," I just shrugged. "We're family."

"I meant how are you two  _related_. What is he, father, uncle, cousin?"

She was digging. I tilted my head, edging on the defensive. "Maybe that's none of your business."

"It's just a simple question," Kate replied, her eyebrows rising innocently, but her dark eyes were piercing.

"I thought I gave you a pretty satisfactory answer."

"You know, if I didn't know any better," She said, taking a sip of water. "I'd say you were hiding something."

That just brought a smile to my face. I clicked my tongue. "Funny you should say that."

Glass still in her hand, Kate threw me a quizzical look. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, its nothing. I just keep thinking about what you said earlier, how you learned about my school from Steve?" I said with the same smile. "Because you looked pretty surprised by me when we first met. As if you had no idea who I was. Almost like Steve never mentioned me in conversation before."

Kate opened her mouth to respond, probably another totally-casual-but-non-verifiable excuse, but I cut her off.

"In fact," I raised a finger. "That's exactly what he told me afterwards when I asked him about it."

Kate didn't move for a very long moment. Our gazes, locked onto each other.

My mouth turned into a thin line. "So why don't you tell me who's the one that's hiding."

I tried to convince myself it was just my paranoia making me overthink this. The dial on my suspicion meter had been broken off and now everything felt like a bad sign.

But I knew one thing was for certain. I couldn't trust Kate.

And now I'd upended the chessboard, making it anyone's game. I had no idea what was going to happen next, but I knew I couldn't keep it to myself any longer. It was Kate's turn to do something. Her face was unreadable, however, although I could tell by her sudden rigidity that our previous faux-polite conversation was at an end.

Finally, at length, she spoke quietly. "It's not what you think,"

"Really?" I said, my expression hardening as I leaned in closer. My voice dropped, even though we were the only two in the room. "Because I think you're not who you say you are,  _Kate_ , if that's even your real name."

Her slip-up, the simple lie that Steve told her about my school, had given her away, and I had been onto her ever since. Kate had weaved a pretty good story around her; the diploma and the pictures all looked convincing. If she had chosen any other hospital, I might've believed her about that, too. But she obviously knew very little about me, maybe never even knew I'd grown up sick — maybe she chose a New York hospital hoping to engender a sense of kinship. But it had only achieved the opposite effect.

"Amelia, you don't —" Kate stood up, but I was on edge and reacted badly. As soon as she moved, I jumped out of my seat and away from the table, ready to bolt.

"Hey, easy!" This seemed to catch Kate by surprise, who caught herself, hands raised as a sign of peace. She kept her pitch low, her head slightly bowed, like I was a skittish horse she was trying to calm. Slowly, Kate lowered her hands onto the table. The meals between us were entirely forgotten, as the air in the apartment took on a distinct change. "Easy. Just listen. I'm not going to hurt you, okay? There's a lot you don't understand."

"You mean, besides the fact you've been stalking Steve?" I demanded, the sarcasm spitting out harsh. On my feet, my heart was pounding a mile a minute. I glanced around, my instinct seeking escape kicking in.

"It's not  _stalking_ ," Kate almost rolled her eyes, and the sweet facade dropped away completely. Her expression turned hard, even annoyed, and her whole posture changed to one of defense. I noticed the way her hands curled, the tendons and muscles in her arms. She was healthy, athletic even. Probably not your average shut-in crazy stalker. "It's just a job. I'm not here to hurt you or Steve, okay?"

"A job?" And that's when it clicked. "You work for SHIELD."

A muscle in Kate's jaw clenched, and she glanced down, seeming angry with herself for a moment. She didn't deny it. Apparently, she thought I'd already figured it out.

Instead, she'd given herself away.

I took another step back.

"Amelia," She said again, a warning tone now. Dark eyes met mine, pinning me in place. "Don't freak out. I was assigned as Steve's protection detail. I'm just here to keep an eye on things, make sure he's okay."

"Oh really? Does  _he_  know that?" I demanded.

She scowled, side-stepping around the table, but that only had me backing away further. I glanced at the door behind me. Already guessing what I was thinking, Kate spoke up, "I wouldn't do it, Amelia. You can't tell him. In order to do my job I can't lose my cover."

I just snorted at that, wondering why the hell that should matter to me. "I think maybe Steve deserves to know that SHIELD is spying on him."

And all this time I'd been worried they were on  _me_. I had never thought that SHIELD would think Captain America to be worth suspicion. Kate could call it whatever she wanted, but I wasn't stupid. If Steve didn't know, it meant SHIELD didn't trust him.

And I didn't trust them. Not before, and not now.

"Amelia, if you tell him, you will ruin over a year of valuable intelligence work," Kate said, her voice rising at my defiance. She was smaller than me, weighed a little less, but I had no doubt in my mind that Kate was someone who knew full well how to take care of herself. Any SHIELD agent would.

I just made a face.  _Intelligence work_. "So you  _are_  spying on him."

"I am  _protecting_ Rogers, by order of Director Fury. I don't need to explain to you what that means." Kate replied, her teeth gritted. "I'm not here to argue semantics. You have no idea the repercussions of what this will do to him, to me, to all of SHIELD."

I clenched my fists. "I don't care."

All thoughts of leaving vanished when a better idea came to mind. Before Kate could stop me, I pulled out my phone, unlocking it and opening the texting app. Steve would probably be too busy to take a call, but the best I could do was leave a message for him to read later.

"Amelia, don't!" Kate lunged for me but I dodged out of the way, tucking my phone behind my back before she could grab it. My back hit the wall and I stared at Kate, who leaned against a shelf that had braced her impact. She was starting to breath a little heavier. "Do not. Tell him."

"Or what." It came out more like a challenge than a question.

"Or…" Kate hesitated for a moment, brow furrowing as she scrambled to come up with something. Then she set her jaw. "Or your family, your friends will find out the truth about you. May, Peter, Michelle, Ned, Dmitri — all of them, will find out who you really are.  _What_  you are. "

Having just pulled out my phone again, I went stock-still. My blood went cold, and my eyes slid from the phone up to Kate's expression.

Brown eyes wide and focused on mine.

It wasn't an empty threat.

I swallowed thickly. For a moment, I was utterly speechless, a combination of shock, horror, fear. The thought of everyone finding out about what happened to me, what I really was, sent a terrible jolt through my gut. My normal life hinged entirely on the fact that most of them did not know what really happened. Desperation coursed through me, the desire to keep it that way at all costs. Would SHIELD really stoop that low? What did they have to gain from exposing me?

But then it answered my other question. They were watching me, too. Me  _and_  Steve. That was the only way they could know about my relationship to Dmitri, or Michelle.

Know how much they meant to me. How much keeping my secrets meant.

But I didn't want to betray Steve by not telling him. Was it betraying him? I didn't know, but that's what it felt like, this choice Kate presented me. Hardly a choice, to be honest. She had me backed into a corner, literally and figuratively.

Steve had made an effort to be honest with me at every turn, and it felt wrong that I couldn't do the same. Sure, there were still secrets, but they were personal secrets about ourselves that (hopefully) affected no one else. This? This was game-changing.

I couldn't do that to Steve. At the same time, I didn't want to face an Aunt May that knew the truth. The expression in her face, the fear in her eyes, too afraid to even touch me, get close to me. Not seeing me as her little girl, but as a ticking time bomb, a terror threat in the making.

Dmitri would probably be completely freaked and never talk to me again — proving his mother right about me. I didn't imagine much different for Ned; if Peter didn't tell him about Spider-Man, that said all I needed to know on how he might react to one of his best friends being a runaway assassin. And Michelle? ...Well, I had no idea how MJ would react, and I couldn't decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing. But I doubted she'd be pleased.  
  
I could see them, see them all, leaving me. My entire life falling to pieces. 

Turned out I didn't need to say anything. I just dropped my phone, slumping against the wall. But I didn't break eye contact with Kate. She won this battle, but the war wasn't over.

I hated myself for it. The self-loathing ran hot, bitter, deep. I didn't want to do this to Steve, after everything he'd done for me.

Seeing my silent surrender, Kate took a deep breath. Something flickered across her face — Worry? Regret? I couldn't tell, and it was gone in a flash. Seemingly to relax, but I suspected she was more relieved than she let on. A year long operation. I couldn't imagine how hard she had to work just to get into this position with Steve. I wondered if any attraction she showed him was actually real — if she had any idea how much this might hurt him.

You know, aside from the fact that his supposed allies were absolutely spying on him without impunity.

But still. I'd seen the way Steve looked at her. He liked Kate. Or he liked the  _character_ of Kate, as played by this nameless SHIELD agent.

"Thank you," Kate said, with a slight nod of her head, straightening her shirt and pressing her hands into her back like she just carried several heavy boxes up a flight of stairs. And just like that, she went from all hard edges, rough government agent to exhausted nurse on her break.

Her gratitude, although subtle, still seemed genuine. It surprised me. Considering the tense moment, I figured she'd just forgo with all formalities completely.

I still didn't say anything. My phone was still in my hand, and I reluctantly put it in my pocket again. I didn't move from my position on the wall, but I watched Kate go back to the table, put the chairs back in place, fixing the perfect image she had so painstakingly constructed.

She glanced at me. "Are you going to finish your salad?"

I just stared at her.

Realizing that I wasn't going to move, Kate closed her eyes and hung her head. "C'mon, Mia. It doesn't have to be like this. I'm not your enemy. You can trust me."

 _That_.

Was hilarious.

"Are you shitting me?" I didn't mean to swear, but nothing else could convey the sheer disbelief I felt at the moment. I threw my arms out and spat, "You just threatened to expose me to everyone I care about! We're way past trust at this point!"

Kate pursed her lips, eyes going hard, but instead of glaring at me her focus was on the floor. "Fine. If you can't trust me, then at least be civil. Fake it if you have to, but Steve cannot be able to guess from your demeanor that something is wrong. Do you understand?"

She held my gaze for a long moment. Another battle of wills. Internally, I cursed. Kate was smarter than I thought. Even with my family hanging over my head like Damocles' sword, I was still thinking of a way on how to clue Steve in without giving myself away.

But Kate was three steps ahead. In a harder tone, she repeated, "I said,  _do you understand_?"

Despite myself, I flinched. I didn't like orders, and I especially didn't like the way Kate said it. Old memories bubbled beneath the surface, echoes of the Crucible, but I stuffed them down again.

This was not the time.

"Yes," I muttered, blinking first. I hated that, too, hated giving in, hated that I was putting myself before Steve. Unable to deal with the shame, I turned my attention to the window, feigning boredom, as if this whole affair was now a waste of my time. "Fine. Whatever, I'll do it. Just stay the hell away from my friends."

"That can be arranged." Kate said, her own tone stiff but diplomatic. She turned my seat towards me and gestured. "Now sit. We're finishing this meal."

 _God, was she serious?_  I looked from Kate, to the chair, to Kate again. She was.

Hell no.

"If I'm going to be stuck here for the next twenty-four hours, can I at least get my stuff from Steve's apartment?" I asked, and tried to sound at least a little bit mollifying, although it might've come off as whiny. Before Kate could protest, I pulled out the key Steve had given me. "You don't have to break in this time."

That earned me an irritated look, and I tried not to look too pleased about it. Kate huffed, releasing the chair. "Fine. Let's make this quick."

When she went to open the front door, I finally peeled myself off the wall and followed her into the hallway. Kate waited by Steve's door, arms folded, while I unlocked and let myself in.

When she followed inside, I threw her an annoyed look. "You want me to show you his bedroom, too? Never mind, you probably already know where it is."

"Ugh, just go already," Kate just let out an irritated sigh and gestured for me to continue on by myself. Flicking my hair over my shoulder, I went on, heedless and relieved to have a few moments to myself, in familiar territory. Kate remained behind, still looking severely inconvenienced, waiting in the foyer.

"Can we pick up the pace, please?" Kate eventually called, loud enough to be heard throughout the apartment. Barely a minute had passed and that was already too long by her.

When silence answered, Kate scowled and yelled, "Mia? Hello?"

It was too quiet, and Kate didn't even wait for a reply before boldly striding into the apartment, heading straight to Steve's room. As annoying as Mia was, she had been right about one thing: Kate knew the entire layout to the last inch.

When Kate arrived at the open doorway, however, she skidded to a stop, then rushed in with a flurry.

At the opposite end of the bedroom, past the bed with the duffel bag still on top of it, the curtains fluttered.

The window, wide open.

Kate stuck her head out the window, wide eyes sweeping across the exterior.

The streets below, completely empty.

Amelia, gone with the wind.

Kate slammed the window closed. "Shit."                                                                                                                                           


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made a few changes to the previous chapter. Felt like I wasn't giving Kate/Sharon enough credit, so I aimed for a more tense scene (:
> 
> I also made myself hungry writing this chapter. Also, buckle-up buttercups — this is gonna be a LONG BOI

 

**Chapter Eleven  
**

# ✮

* * *

I had no idea what I was doing.

After escaping Kate, I had wandered the streets of DC for hours, making sure I had no tail. I was tempted to throw away my phone, but I didn't want to lose my only connection to Steve at this point — sure, SHIELD was most definitely tracking me through it, but if Steve called or texted me and I didn't answer? That would turn into a problem fast.

The walk also served to clear my head a little. MJ's bracelet rattled against my wrist. My hands started to shake again — not just from the Winter Soldier, but now from Kate's threat. It was the only thing I took from my bag before I jumped out the window to escape Kate; now it served as a constant reminder to the thoughts in my head. My own debilitating fear warring against my better nature, the overwhelming desire to tell Steve the truth.

I still hated myself, but I hadn't given up the possibility yet. Kate didn't control me. SHIELD didn't control me.

Aside from my aimless wandering, there was one tiny hope spot. From Kate's words, I could make an educated guess that SHIELD had no idea Peter was Spider-Man. They also didn't know I told him the truth a while ago, which gave me a bit of confidence. SHIELD wasn't omnipresent. They didn't know everything.

I just had to be careful from now on.

Unfortunately, it still left me in the position of not having anywhere to go. My first thought had been to find Dmitri, but considering Kate's threat and the fact that Ms. Hawkins hates my guts, I decided it was better to stay away for now. But DC was unfamiliar to me and I had no idea where else to go. I didn't know anyone here. Not anyone I could trust, at least. No place that was truly safe.

Where could I go? What could I do? My hand went up to clasp the compass hanging around my neck. I came to a stop at a street corner, looking down to study the casing. It seemed stupid, thinking this compass had an answer, but I couldn't help it. I felt utterly, completely lost.

Running my thumb over the cool metal, I flicked the cap open. The little black needle swayed back and forth, but remained pointed towards true North.

I looked up as the walk sign blinked on. An idea had occurred to me.

I still had one option left.

The sky was turning orange and pink as evening drew closer. The faint beginnings of starlight began to twinkle, as the sun glowered red, sinking towards the horizon. The streets turned dark and warm, the air cooling, and passed under the thick shadows of silhouetted trees. There was more traffic here, closer to downtown DC, but the added pedestrians made it easier to blend in.

Twenty minutes later, I now stood in front of the VA center. A low gray building with a spacious, friendly lawn, lights filtering through frosted glass. A part of me was surprised it was still open, and I hesitated going inside.

What was I afraid of? It was either here or a long bus ride back to New York, which I wasn't ready to go through with yet.

Right now, I had neither the money nor the wherewithal to go anywhere else.

It occured to me, just as I was stepping through the doors, if it would be weird for a teenager to be seen here. I wasn't exactly the usual clientele, and I didn't know anyone here.

Well, just one person.

The interior was a large, quiet lobby, empty at this time in the evening. A woman commanded a desk to my right, but she was too involved in a phone call and I slipped by unnoticed. Ahead, a wide hallway stretched out, splitting off in two directions at the end, with benches lining the center and the walls between. The furniture was made of creaky wood, but the walls were painted a warm tan, and I could hear a waxer buzzing somewhere down the building. Along the walls were doorways — some opened, some closed. An open one to the right held a conference room of sorts, with a podium at the front. In front of it, an array of folded seats, filled with a variety of people, men and women of a wide range of ages and ethnicities. Their backs were to me, and for the moment I felt safe in my anonymity.

However, the speaker had full view of the doorway and anyone that passed. Sam Wilson addressed the group at large, his tone calm and guiding, but not without that trademark smile. There was a round of chuckles when he made a self-deprecating joke.

As I passed, our gazes met. I kept walking.

It was another fifteen minutes before the meeting ended. The sound of chairs scraping on linoleum floor, being stacked, chatting conversation growing louder and echoing down the hall, followed quickly by a mass exodus of the group. I sat in a corner, next to a bench, using it as a shield as I studied the slow, shambling procession.

I looked back at the compass in my hands. The needle was now pointed towards me.

At least it was warm in here. I had rolled up the sleeves to my green jacket. I felt safe in my little corner. Would Kate think to look for me here?

Of course, that was assuming my phone wasn't being traced.

"Hey there," A warm voice brought my attention back up. Sam approaching me, apparently the last to leave the group meeting. The door was closed behind him. "It's about time you two finally showed up. I had a feeling you'd be the one to get Steve to keep his promise."

Perhaps it was my wordless shrug, or half-hearted smile, that gave it away. As he came to a stop next to the bench, Sam's genial expression started to slip. His eyes cast up, looked around, before settling back on me. "I take it the big guy isn't with you, huh?"

I gave a silent shake of my head.

"I see."

A stretch of silence followed, as Sam settled onto the bench, looking down at me with a slight frown. It was only then that I realized my hands were shaking; I closed the compass, letting it drop and hang from its cord, and pressing my hands against my knees, afraid to look up at Sam. I didn't know if he had noticed, and I didn't want to know.

"So!" he spoke first, breaking the ice with a slightly more chipper tone, although it sounded a little forced. "Must be pretty bad for you to have come all the way here on your own, then."

I just nodded my head. It wasn't really a question; Sam didn't sound surprised or accusing, like I was inconveniencing him in any way. Just observant; either Steve told him of my earlier episode today, or he could tell from my current state that I wasn't okay. Right now, either was possible. I wasn't sure what I looked like, but it probably wasn't good.

"Do you...want to talk about it?" Sam asked, a bit more hesitantly. I doubted my wordless answers were very encouraging.

I didn't know how to respond to that. Right now, talking felt very difficult. I swallowed, and it felt like there was a big rock stuck in my throat. Like even the tiny of action of speaking seemed like overexertion, and if I tried, it might end with either me crying or having another panic attack. Neither option seemed pleasing.

Still, I didn't want Sam to leave, so I just nodded again. Tiny, a little ashamed with myself. Why was I like this?

"Hm," Sam pondered that for a moment, and I glanced up to see him making a grimace; it took me a moment to realize he was being comical, and relaxed slightly. "Alright." he shifted so he was leaning an elbow on the armrest. "Does Steve know you're here?"

I shook my head.

"Is he at work? Can you reach him?"

A nod and a shake. Technically, I  _could_  reach him, but not in a way that would matter to me. A text wasn't going to cover this; neither would voicemail.

"Does he know what happened?"

Yes.

"Hm," Sam hummed to himself, finger tapping the armrest. "Must've been pretty hard for him to leave like that, when you needed him."

Another nod. Stiffer, and I had to bite my lip. I didn't want to think about that.

I didn't want to think about anything.

But Sam's voice was soothing, gentle, guiding. If he was frustrated with my type of response, he gave no sign. "And this… event that happened, was he there, too?"

Yes.

"I'm sorry if these questions seem repetitive, Mia, I just want to understand better. I don't know you that well, or what you've been through," Sam said with a slight bow of his head. "But — and correct me if I'm wrong — whatever happened, it left you pretty shaken. Shaken in a way that doesn't just fade after a few hours and a nap."

Again, not a question, but I nodded anyways; it was true, and I understood.

"Moments like those can make you feel vulnerable; scared, sad, or angry. It can make you do reckless things, for example," Sam gestured around the room. "Running around in a city you don't know very well. But it feels safer than what's in your head, what's hunting you. It feels so real that you have to run away from it."

Yes. I couldn't communicate to Sam that it was not one, but two bad situations that led me here; right now, though, the conversation applied more to the museum, to my panic attack.

Even if I could talk, I wasn't sure how I could explain the whole Kate thing to Sam anyways.

"And now? Do you feel safer, staying here?"

That one took longer to consider. I gave a hesitant shrug. At the very least, I liked Sam more, and the air was much more at ease than either in a lonely apartment or stuck in the same room as Kate.

Sam gave that answer a good appraisal. His brow furrowed for a second, and he scratched his chin. "Do you want to stay here until Steve gets back?"

Stay somewhere warm and relatively safe and anonymous for a night? It sounded like a dream. Still, I felt embarrassed having to be in this position, and I briefly considered lying. The VA wasn't open 24/7. I couldn't actually  _stay_  here.

Perhaps sensing my indecision, Sam added, "Look, I'm not trying to force you into a decision. But if you really want to stay here for the night, I'm totally cool with that. I'm pretty sure we've got some spare blankets in a closet around here." Then he leaned with a conspiratorial whisper, smiling, "And just between you and me, the breakroom's got a new TV and a  _very_  nice couch, if I do say so myself. Much more comfortable than sitting on this old-ass linoleum. I'll even throw in a pizza. What do you think?"

I looked up at him, brow furrowing in surprise. "Really? You'd do that?"

It was the first time I'd spoken, and my voice was gravel and sandpaper. I cleared my throat, shaking my head. "I mean, thank you, but I don't want to ruin your night —"

"Are you kidding?" Sam laughed. "How can I say no to late-night pizza? The only caveat is that you'll have to watch the Louisville-Minnesota game that's playing tonight."

I blinked, confused, frowning slightly. "...Basketball?"

"And she knows her sports," Sam grinned, and tapped me lightly on my shoulder, with an encouraging tone. " _C'mon_ , you know you want to."

I was at a loss. It wasn't every day a man  _urged_ to be inconvenienced. Hell, it seemed like Sam was even enjoying the prospect of it. And to be honest, pizza  _did_ sound really good…

At last, I gave a tiny nod. "O-okay."

"Yes!" Sam pumped his fist. If I didn't know any better, I'd say Sam was more excited about this than I was. On top of it all, I couldn't tell if it was an act. He seemed  _that_  genial. "Alright, get your butt off the ground, I'll show you where the break room is."

It was startling just how… easy Sam made it all seem. Just like that, he led me to another room; small, but cozy, with a large plasma TV on one wall and a very long couch on the other. The room was also equipped with a small kitchenette, sink, and fridge. The couch was an old, soft brown leather, but it squished pleasantly under my weight, and I felt obliged when Sam told me to take my shoes off before tucking my legs beneath me.

There I stayed, flipping through the channels to find Sam's game while he went left to close shop. I heard distant voices as he said good-bye to the secretary making her own way out — a somewhat extended conversation, I heard laughter and the jovial tone of light flirting. I wondered if she knew I was here, or that Sam was staying. Either way, she, too, eventually left.

I had just found the NCAA newscast when Sam walked back in, cell phone in hand. For a second, I felt like panicking, instantly believing a call to Steve, until Sam finger-gunned and said, "Gonna go pick up the pizza. Keep an eye on that game. Memorize it. I want to know everything I missed when I get back."

I agreed, which might have been a mistake. I knew very little about basketball and when I started to watch, I realized I didn't understand any of the terms or phrases the commentators were using. Still, I listened, and tried to make sense from what I was hearing to what I was watching. It was the least I could do for Sam.

Sam would return twenty minutes later with two pizza boxes. I heard the car before he entered, the door opening, then the smell of glorious meat and cheese before he finally entered. "Say hello to the best pizza you'll ever find in DC.

I was already standing up to receive him, and Sam laughed as I practically snatched the top box out of his arms. Lifting the lid, I was hit in the face with hot steam and the sight of pepperoni-and-mushroom pie, and I had to resist the urge to just slam my face directly into the open box.

"I'm guessing that you probably eat like your old man does, so I thought it was in my best interest to order the two-for-one special." Sam seemed pretty proud of himself for that forethought. He set the other pizza box on the table (containing sausage-and-onions) before going to the nearby counter to grab some napkins next to the sink. But I was too hungry to wait.

Sam turned, only to stop in his tracks, forlorn paper plates in hand. He smiled, but it was slightly uneasy at devouring taking place. "Jeez Louise, when's the last time you ate, Mia?"

"Few hours ago," I said through a mouthful of pizza. I swallowed before I continued more coherently, "Salad. Didn't even eat half of it."

Sitting down in a nearby armchair, Sam just nodded slowly, "Hmm, yeah, you don't seem like the low-carb type. Speaking of! Since I delivered the goods, now you have to tell me how the hell Minnesota is already beating Louisville."

I did my best to recite what I heard from the commentary, not understanding a word of it. At least I knew I had remembered it correctly when Sam just nodded along like it all made sense. Afterwards, I was too busy feasting to pay attention to the game, but Sam was completely wrapped up in it.

It was funny how food just took my mind off of everything. In fact, I realized I hadn't been thinking about anything distressing at all since I'd been in the break room, and I wondered what kind of trick Sam pulled on me. Of course, as soon as it occurred to me, I began to feel a little queasy, but then Sam whooped at a three-point score and I was distracted once again.

When there came a pause in the programming for commercials, a lull fell over the room. Sam was still eating, but I found myself staring in a corner of the room.

Before I could reconsider, I blurted, "Why are you doing this?"

"Hm?" Sam looked up from his pizza, confused. "You mean, this? Just seemed like the right thing to do, that's all."

I didn't like that answer, even if it may have been true. "But you didn't have to go all out. I would've been okay with just, like, a candy bar from a vending machine."

"No, you wouldn't," Sam's rebuke caught me off guard with how casual he said it. At my startled expression, he said, "Would you have survived? Yeah, sure. But would you actually be  _better_? Probably not. Are you telling me you'd rather have a Snickers than the eight pieces of pizza you've already eaten?"

Hm. I bowed my head, crunching a paper napkin in my hand into a ball. "No."

"Exactly." Sam wiped his own hands, setting down his paper plate. "As for your question, I'm doing all this because I want to, because maybe that's just the guy I am. If one of my friend's kids showed up here, all alone and with no place to go, you better believe I'd do something about it. You're important to Steve, Mia, which makes you important to me."

Ah, shit. Well, that certainly satisfied my curiosity. In fact, I stopped saying anything at all — as comforting as it was to hear that Steve really cared about me, Sam had also reminded me of why I was here. The same guilt I'd been trying to forget was back in my face again.

Sam just chuckled. "Sorry, did I lay it on a little too thick there? I'm just trying to tell you what's obvious to me, not trying to make you uncomfortable or anything."

Another thought occurred to me. Not really thinking, or attempting to address that comment, I once again blurted, "What do you do when you're forced to make a hard decision?"

Sam blinked. "What kind of hard decision?"

"Like," I pressed my lips together, trying to find the right words without repeating my exact situation verbatim. "If someone gave you two options; lie to a good friend, o-or they'll tell your worst secret to everyone you know. Everyone you care about. But you also don't want to lie to your friend, because you know he needs to know."

"And how bad is this secret?"

"Bad enough to ruin your life."

Sam tilted his head, brow furrowing. His jovial demeanor started to slip away, perhaps realizing I wasn't posing a light-hearted hypothetical. "That's, uh, a pretty rough situation. Rock and a hard place, huh?"

I felt embarrassed for having word vomited, so I just averted my gaze and nodded silently.

"I don't know. I guess if I really valued my friend's trust, I'd figure out a way to tell them the truth," He shrugged, sitting back in his seat and folding his arms. He considered for a moment longer. "Without letting this other person know, of course."

"They might find out anyways." I said. "A secret never stays a secret for long."

Sam eyed me, pressing his lips together. "Sounds to me like you already have your answer." At my confused expression, he elaborated, "Well, you just said that if I did tell the truth, the big bad secret will come out, thanks to this mean-ass third party. But if a secret is going to come out inevitably… then, I mean, why suffer through it?"

"Oh," Only too late did I realize the flaw in my logic, and nodded to myself. Was it really inevitable that Aunt May, and the rest, would find out the truth about me? I didn't want to consider it; at the same time, there seemed like a sort of truth to Sam's logic; it was destiny, it was fate.

Inevitable.

"Maybe I do want them to know," I conceded, screwing up my lips as I studied my hands. "But I want them to learn it from me."

"Then you'll have to beat this other guy to it." Sam said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. "They can't threaten you if you've got nothing to hide. Hypothetically speaking, of course. Why the big question?"

I didn't understand what he meant at first, before realizing he meant the whole thing. Self-conscious, and maybe worried I'd given too much of myself away, I just laughed quickly and said, "Oh, its, er, it's nothing. Just homework for my philosophy class."

"They give you homework over Spring Break?"

"Gotta keep us on our toes."

"Bastards."

* * *

# ✮✮✮

* * *

I woke to low voices.

Early morning light filtered in through the small windows above me. Opening my eyes, I squinted until the blurry shapes took focus, and found the break room empty. The TV shut off, the pizza boxes and related debris cleaned away. I pulled at the blanket Sam had given me — another one, folded up, served as a pillow.

I had fallen asleep some point late last night, when the game was still playing. In all that time, Sam had never asked me any more questions about what happened, or why I was there.

On the other hand, he tried to explain the true wonders of basketball to me, so it was a mixed blessing.

He was still here. It was his voice I was hearing outside in the hallway, low and muffled, a private conversation.

The other voice I recognized instantly.

Steve.

My first instinct was to shoot up and go out there to see them, but then I hesitated as my ears picked up on their words.

"... _said whatever it was, you knew about it_ …?"

".. _.was there. Didn't want to leave but_ …"

"... _pale as a ghost, man_ …"

"... _sorry. Thank you for watching out… figure out a way to make it up to you_ …"

"... _no worries, man, just glad to help_ …"

Ah, an Adult Conversation™. The kind you weren't supposed to overhear, but did anyways. I couldn't decide whether those words were comforting or not; at the moment, I was suddenly overcome with the fear that Steve was angry with me. I had a feeling that Sam would've told him, but I didn't know when — had he done it after I was asleep? Or maybe when he left to get the pizza? Or hell, when I was alone in the break-room and he was locking all the doors to the VA.

Whatever it was, Steve was here now. Afraid that my actions might have ruined whatever goodwill I had already achieved thus far, I slowly rose from the couch, wincing at the cramp in my leg, before walking out.

"Ah, she rises," Sam announced when he saw me — Steve's back was to me, and he turned as Sam said, "I'd watch out for that one. She ate a whole pie and a half in less than an hour."

"Duly noted," Steve replied with a smile. I couldn't help but notice it was a little thinner than usual. "I'll see you later, then?"

"Better believe it," Sam gave a tiny salute as he spun around Steve and started heading towards the door, jacket over his shoulder. From here, I could see that there were already a few cars in the lot, and the ringing of the telephone from the lobby. "And Mia! Stay out of trouble for me, will ya?"

I gave a tiny wave. "I'll do my best."

When Sam passed through the doors, I turned to find Steve appraising me with an unreadable look on his face. At once, that guilt came back in full force, and for a second I was tongue-tied. I couldn't say what I  _wanted_  to say, so instead I said, "I'm sorry."

Steve furrowed his brow, bowing his head but keeping his eyes on me. "Are you okay?"

"I — " My mouth hung open for a second, nothing come out. That wasn't the response I expected from him. At last, my shoulders slumped, and I tucked my hands in my jacket pockets, not knowing what to do with them. "I-I guess so. Better than yesterday, I suppose."

By the end of my sentence, my voice was little more than a mumble, my gaze dropping to the floor. When Steve didn't say anything immediately, I risked a glance back up him, tensing in preparation. "Are you mad at me?"

"Mad at you?" Steve threw me a mildly curious look, then shook his head. "No, I'm not mad at you, Mia. Disappointed, maybe. I wish you'd called or texted me when you ran out, let me know what was wrong."

"I didn't know if you'd pick up."

Steve conceded the point with a nod. "That's fair, and I should apologize too. I shouldn't have left you like that. But I still would've preferred to have heard from you than learn it from Sam."

Last night's conversation with Sam echoed back at me. A hand reached blindly for the compass around my neck. I bit my lip and looked away again. Feeling stupid, I could only mutter again, "I'm sorry."

"I am glad, though," Steve's voice was accompanied by an arm around my shoulders. "That you found a safe place to go."

"Yeah," I said quietly, not really proud of it, as Steve guided the way towards the doors. He smelled as if he just took a shower, but I caught a whiff of something a little more… acrid beneath the fresh scent. It smelled familiar, but I couldn't put my finger on it. "Does he know? Sam?"

"He knows enough," Steve said, which meant  _more than he did before._  "He understands that the last few days have been… a challenge. I've been thinking a lot about what happened, and what to do about it."

There was something left unspoken in his words. "And?"

"There's actually a friend I want you to meet."

I couldn't help it. "Another one?"

Steve cast me a wry look. "We're not pranking her this time."

"Her?"

"You'll see."


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right losers! Two chapters for the price of one! *dabs*
> 
> I ended up writing it all in one chapter originally, but it was a 10k long beast and considering the amount of information/story I want to convey, I felt it was too much to consume in one go.
> 
> Also I felt bad for missing a week, and now you know why it took so long lmao. I am keeping on schedule, I just forgot pacing ;P

**Chapter Twelve  
**

# ✮

* * *

Steve was being cryptic for whatever reason, so most of the car ride was made in silence.

I was still battling with myself, hands clenching and unclenching. How the hell was I supposed to say it? Hey, Steve, your cute neighbor is actually a SHIELD spy and she's totally been spying on you for the past year? By the way, SHIELD kinda sucks?

Scenery of metro DC slowly transitioned to woodsy Maryland, but I didn't notice. It wouldn't go well. But the longer I thought about it, I couldn't see a situation were it  _would_. This wasn't just another uncomfortable truth I was unwilling to face; this was a life-changing reality. As far as I knew, Steve trusted SHIELD. At least, more than I did, which was saying a lot.

_Just tell him just tell him just tell him just tell him —_

God, just rip the band-aid off.

Finally, I found the will to open my mouth, to form the right words.

My phone buzzed.

I jolted, so caught up in my own thoughts I forgot about my surroundings. Pulling out the phone, I glanced at the text message I'd just received.

 

 

 

 

 

> **Unknown Number**
> 
> _  
> Remember your promise._  

 

A vice clamped around my throat, so when I swallowed it felt like I was choking. Jesus, if I ever needed an answer to  _Is SHIELD spying on me_? Now I had one.

Kate's timing was impeccable. Closing my eyes, I tucked the phone away. One again she had me cornered. Whatever courage I had summed up had been whisked away as soon as it came. How could I tell Steve anything when I was being watched all the time?

I needed a safe place. Probably close my phone in an airtight box, toss it in a river first,  _then_  tell Steve in a nice, public area with lots of witnesses.

Something else occurred to me. Pulling out my phone again, I opened my text messages — swiping away the mystery texter — before opening up the conversation with Aunt May.

I deliberated for a long five minutes before entering:

 

 

 

 

 

> **_When I get back, I want to talk to you about something_.**

 

Short and sweet. Maybe too vague, but with the definite probability of SHIELD monitoring all my messages, I couldn't afford anything else.  
  
Three little dots appeared only a few seconds later. My heart lurched into my throat, but I told myself not to panic just yet.  
_  
_

 

 

 

 

 

> _Sure :) Is there something wrong? Is the trip going okay?  
>    
>  _

 

Sighing tensely, I replied:

 

 

 

 

 

> _**Trip going fine. Nothing wrong.** _
> 
> **_Just have something important to tell you when I'm home._ **
> 
> _Don't want to talk over phone?_
> 
> _**No. Better if face 2 face.** _
> 
> **_Not urgent but personal._ **
> 
> _OK_
> 
> _Let me know if you need anything_
> 
> _Love you <3_

 

I could sense May's confusion in the way she added 'Love you', and I doubted my 'not urgent' helped matters much.

Despite the unease in her answers, I felt a great sense of relief. Or slightly less guilt. Hard to say, but I  _did_  feel a bit better. I was doing something. I had set myself on a course I couldn't back out now. And I suppose, if anyone deserved to know the truth, it would be Aunt May.

I also had given myself plenty of time to actually form, you know, coherent words to make when I actually got around to talking to her about it. Time to prepare for any potential fallout.

"We're here," Steve said, pulling the truck into park in front of a small red-brick house. Rose bushes rustled in a gentle breeze, and I studied it from my spot in the car for a moment, while Steve got out.

The neighborhood we were in was quaint suburbia, with oak trees lining the road on either side, their branches casting out and budding leaves beginning to form a canopy that would soon cover the entire road. The other houses resembled the one we parked in front of, modest homes but refined, all with clean lawns and some variety of garden or shrubbery around them.

As I stepped out, I noticed that there was an old car parked in front of the garage — a vintage red convertible Porsche, the kind you only take out in warm weather. It was perfectly maintained, but as we passed by it on the way to the front door, I noticed its registration sticker on the windshield was out of date. Several years out of date.

I was still looking at it, admiring the gleam of the metal bumper and the highly polished badges. Its circular headlights gave it an almost innocent look, but the vibrant red seemed to denote a certain type of energy. I didn't know a lot about cars, but I could tell this definitely not the kind you had on a measly budget.

A woman in scrubs answered the door. She was maybe mid to late-forties, a redhead with some gray starting to show. At the sight of Steve, she burst into a great smile. "Oh, hello Mr. Rogers! How unexpected! Ms. Carter will be so thrilled! Come in, come in… oh, you brought a friend, too, how exciting…!"

 _Ms. Carter_? My attention switched from the car to the house as we were ushered inside by the friendly caregiver — guessing by her clothing and the nametag (which read Barbara). But I couldn't see the vintage car as being hers.

"You have perfect timing," Barbara said as we entered. "This is one of her better days."

The first room was a living room, slightly cramped but comfy, and notably empty. I noticed the picture frames on the mantle, in particular a framed triangle of an American flag, and a case of old war medals. There was a distinctly floral, musty smell to the place, not unpleasant; perhaps from the presence of old furniture. I didn't fail to notice the gramophone, not unlike the one Steve had in his apartment. Before I had a chance to get a good look at any of the artifacts, Barbara was already bustling off down the hall past the staircase, talking as she went. Steve ambled after her, completely at ease, and nodded for me to follow.

As I followed him, I caught that weird scent I picked up on him earlier. Faint, barely noticeable after he had taken a shower. But this time, I recognized it.

Gunpowder.

The house looked perfectly kept, not a single piece out of place. In fact, it looked mostly… unused, and I didn't understand the notion until I followed Steve through a doorway in the back of the house. He was already speaking to someone inside — not Barbara, who had already left the room. "...Hey, there's my beautiful girl…"

A soft chuckle replied, weathered and feminine. She had a distinct British accent. "...Steve, you rascal, you should've called…"

"And ruin the surprise? I couldn't." If I didn't know any better, I'd say there was an uncommon  _fondness_  in Steve's tone, soft and friendly and almost… sad. I hesitated before entering, unsure of what I was walking into. I could make out half of Steve's silhouette from the door-frame, but couldn't see past him to who he was talking to. Just the end of a bed, and windows that looked out into the garden behind the house.

On cue, Steve said, "I brought someone with me today, Peg. Someone I want you to meet." He turned and, spotting me lingering in the hallway like a leper, he smiled and opened out his arm, gesturing for me to enter. "Don't be afraid, she doesn't bite."

"Not anymore," the faceless woman said, in a voice that smiled.

I peeked into the room first, before stepping in completely. Steve didn't rush me, but he seemed mildly amused by my uncertainty.

"Peggy, meet Amelia Fletcher." Steve said, putting a hand on my back to encourage me to step further into the room, so I was standing directly in front of the bed. "Mia, meet Margaret Carter. Or Peggy, as her friends call her."

My eyes fell on the old woman lying on stark white sheets, gazing up at me with a curious look. She had to be at least ninety years old, if not older… But her dark brown eyes were sharp, and I had the deep sensation that she missed no detail as her gaze traveled up and down.

"My, my," She murmured, a smile pulling at thin lips. She tilted her head in the same kind of fond manner that Steve used. "Aren't you a bonny sight. Come here, dear, let me get a closer look at you."

She lifted a frail hand, and I shuffled over. A sudden shyness overcame me then, and I ducked my head, a flush rising to my cheeks.

Beneath it, my mind was racing. Peggy Carter.  _The_ Peggy Carter! One of the most renowned intelligence agents in history — I knew she was still alive, but it never occurred to me that she and Steve would remain in contact. But of course they would, wouldn't they? She was the unseen member of the Howling Commandos, the guiding hand that directed them where to go. And, you know, possible love interest of Captain America. But that was the furthest thing from my mind at this moment.

Beside her bed was a wooden chair and a tea cart. Taking a seat, I found my attention slipping to the framed pictures by her bed. Two of them were of her in her younger years, the 50's perhaps, with two young children, a boy and a girl. The third was a wedding portrait — her in a white dress, standing arm-in-arm with a dark-haired man in dress greens and a crutch, under a rose-covered arch.

"I've heard so much about you," Peggy said, shifting upwards in her bed. Steve was at her side in a moment, helping her up to a sitting position, readjusting her pillows. She just faffed him off with her hands. "Oh, enough of that, Steve, you mother hen. Does he do this with you, too, Amelia?"

Now it was Steve's turn to look embarrassed, and my own shyness abated in the moment to give a smile in return. "He's not usually this bashful."

"Hey," Steve said, but it only made Peggy laugh.

"Well, I'm pleased to see he's found another handful to watch out for," Peggy said, still chuckling, as Steve came to sit at her other side. I noticed her other bedside table was loaded with medication bottles. "And, from the way I hear it, finally one who can keep up with him."

I threw a look his way; Steve didn't have a lot of friends, and even the ones he did have I knew he didn't talk of me much. But it seemed Peggy knew plenty.

Normally, with any other person, it might've bothered me. But something about this was different. Not that Peggy knew, but that she was the only one Steve trusted enough to tell.

Hell, I didn't even bother to correct her with my nickname.

"Ah, yeah," Steve rubbed the back of his neck, with a smile that said he might have had a few regrets. "What can I say? Peg knows how to pull the truth out of me."

"Oh, please," Peggy rolled her eyes. "Like I had to say anything to get you to talk. You just went on and on — you should've seen the way his eyes gleamed when he talks about you, Amelia, I swear you'd think he was a different man entirely..."

"The bullying never ends." Steve said with a forlorn look, but it was only half-hearted.

"Bully? I don't  _bully_ ," She sounded so offended that for a second I thought she really was, but then she grinned and smacked him lightly with her hand. "You were never any fun. Amelia, do you want to know what Steve originally thought 'fondue' meant —"

"She doesn't need to know," Steve quickly interrupted.

"Oh, I disagree."

"Peggy, don't do this."

"Do what? Reveal to your lovely new ward how truly  _worldly_ Captain America was? Everyone always talks about the man, but never the boy behind the mask…" Peggy sighed ruefully, shaking her head. She cast me a look out of the corner of her eye and winked. "He was much easier to fluster back in my day."

Steve dropped his head into his palms. When he straightened again, he looked as though he were about to say something, when a knock came. Barbara peeked in and said, "Mr. Rogers? Would you mind, er, helping me with carrying some boxes from the garage? They're a bit too heavy for me."

"Of course," Steve replied, and stood up. Before he disappeared out the door, he looked behind him and said, "Please behave."

When he was gone, Peggy leaned in and whispered. "Was he talking to you or me?"

I couldn't help but smile. "Probably both."

"Ah, a good answer," Peggy gave me the most mischievous grin I'd ever seen; definitely not one I'd ever witnessed on someone her age. It seemed to lift years off her age, and for a moment I could see the young woman still hidden beneath, with the fire and whipcrack energy of an intrepid spy. Straightening, she pressed her hands against the sheets, flattening them out across her legs. "Now that we're alone, Amelia, I must ask you a very important question."

"...Sure?" My stomach lurched with fear. I had no idea where this was going.

"Are you truly a super soldier?" Peggy fixed me with a solid look, quizzical and uncertain, but not hostile.

 _Oh_. Jolting slightly, I stammered, "Uh, y-yeah. I mean, yes, I am. I figured Steve told you."

"Oh, he did, but I had to admit I was very curious," Peggy replied with a delicate shrug. "I never thought I'd see another one. We all thought Steve would be the first and last to ever be made. Or born."

I didn't know what she was implying, if at all, but I immediately fell on my guard. "I'm not, you know, his daughter. If he told you that, too."

"Oh, he didn't have to," Peggy chuckled, shaking her head, gray curls bouncing. "I can tell just by looking at you, you don't bear any resemblance to him. Superficial features, perhaps, but no, your face is too different. Rather, you remind me of someone else…"

"I-I do?" I perked up, surprised.

Peggy looked beside herself, lips pulling down. "Yes, I think so, but I'm not sure…" Her eyes traveled around the room, as if searching for an answer, before landing back on me, eyes narrowing with focus. She reached out, cupped my chin with her hand. Her skin felt dry and papery against my skin, light as a butterfly's wing. "It's your eyes, I'm sure of it. They look just like —"

She shuddered, a cough interrupting her. She withdrew her hand to cover her mouth, but the wracking didn't subside. Her whole body shook violently, and I started out of my seat, growing alarmed. My first instinct was to call for help, because I didn't know what to do — until I remembered the tea tray behind me. There was a glass of water already poured and I grabbed it and quickly offered it to her. "Here, here, drink this."

I had no idea if it would actually help, but Peggy complied nonetheless, wrapping both hands around the cup. I still kept a hold of the bottom, unsure if her shakey grip could hold it after a fit like that.

She was still drinking when Steve returned, Barbara right behind him — rushed in, really. Steve's eyes were alight with undisguised worry. "Sorry, I heard the coughing. Are you okay, Peg?"

He came to sit next to her again, taking the cup from me. Peggy withdrew, her eyes still squeezed shut. Her breath was wheezy, a little thicker than before, and when she opened her eyes again, her gaze seemed unfocused, confused, when they landed on Steve. "...Steve? Y-you're here? You're alive?"

I took a step back, dismayed. My attention cut to Steve, who only returned my look with a small, sad shake of his head, all too knowing. Barbara, by the doorway, only bowed her head.

"Of course," Steve said, fixing a small, soft smile on his face as Peggy stared at him with wide, glassy, brokenhearted eyes. "I couldn't leave my favorite girl behind."

Peggy, once so bright and sharp, seemed to have wilted. Her tears and expression were fragile, and it seemed she had forgotten me — and what she had been about to say — entirely. Steve continued to soothe her as she apparently relived a moment that seemed all too familiar to him.

Feeling suddenly very awkward and out of place, I excused myself to the bathroom.

Although small, with no room to pace, I was glad for the privacy when I shut the door and leaning on the sink. A vulnerability had hit me then, in Peggy's room, that I didn't know how to interpret. Seeing her forget everything so quickly, looking at Steve, an old friend, as if meeting him for the first time in years…

I knew exactly what that felt like.

 _One of her good days,_  Barbara had said. Perhaps too soon.

After taking a few minutes to recompose myself and about three years worth of baggage that wasn't appropriate at this time, I willed myself to leave the bathroom.

From the hallway, I could hear Steve still talking with Peggy, in a low, almost private voice.

It didn't escape my notice how easily they bantered with each other, the light flirting and the warm air between them. Despite their appearance, Peggy and Steve were the same age; contemporaries. As far as I could tell, she was the only one he still had from his old life.  
  
That remembered him.

It was then, I began to understand the loneliness Steve felt. The kind of isolation it was to be born in another time, to have already lived a life, and now made to live a new one entirely — with all the faces you knew and loved just a distant memory to everyone around you.

The thought left a cold, bitter hollow in my chest. How Steve managed to handle it with such grace, I had no idea.

Returning, I caught their conversation echoing into the hallway. Thanks to the shorter distance and thinner walls, I was able to hear much better than earlier this morning.

" _If you don't mind_ ," Steve cleared his throat. " _There's something I wanted to ask you about, Peggy. From… the war._ "

" _Oh_?" came Peggy's reply, confused, still a little wheezy. " _What is it_?"

" _It's about Bucky. Bucky Barnes."_

Ah. That's when it hit me, why we were here. What Steve had meant when he said he'd been thinking about what happened.

If anyone might have answers, it would be Peggy.

Instead of entering, I stood just outside the doorway, listening carefully. Steve was asking this while I wasn't there, and a part of me thought that might have been the reason for his timing. Either way, I didn't want to interrupt, or miss any information.

" _Bucky Barnes_?" Peggy repeated. " _You mean, Sergeant Barnes? Yes, I-I remember him. He tried to flirt with me once, it was very terrible. Why do you ask?_ "

" _Do you remember how he died_?"

" _Oh_." Peggy went silent for a long moment. When she spoke again, her register had dropped. " _Yes. The train. He fell, inside enemy territory_.  _Declared Killed in Action. He was given a hero's funeral back home. They buried an empty casket in Arlington… You've never asked me about him before, have you?_ "

Steve made a humming sound, contemplative. " _No, I haven't_."

" _Why's that_?"

" _Not sure. Guess I thought I had come to terms. But recently…_ " His words trailed off. " _Did the Army, or anyone else, try to recover his body after the war?"_

" _Hm,_ " Peggy went silent again. " _Attempts were made. I know the Howling Commandos certainly tried. We believed deeply, as you did, to leave no man behind. But our efforts were blocked. When the war ended, everything changed. The territory Barnes died in was conquered by the Russians when they came in from the East in the war. They claimed that land for their own, built a wall, among other things, so we couldn't get access, not legally. And I suppose the Army, or the SSR, didn't find it worth the effort. They had a new enemy now, and they weren't going to risk lives for… well, a dead man_."

A long silence followed where Steve made no reply. There came a rustle, blankets shifting, and Peggy whispering, " _I'm sorry, Steve. I didn't mean to reopen any old wounds. It's just what I remembered."_

" _You're fine, Peg. It's not your fault. I'm glad you tried._ "

* * *

# ✮✮✮

* * *

We left shortly after that.

When I finally reentered Peggy's room, I was not surprised that she didn't remember me. Steve would introduce me once again, but the conversation wasn't the same as before. Peggy was back to lying down again, too weak to sit up anymore. On a brighter note, we ended up sharing tea and biscuits for breakfast, and it was then I realized I was starving. Barbara would return to usher us out — that Peggy needed rest.

It was during that conversation my phone would buzz; a text from Dmitri, to my surprise, that gave me pause when Steve later asked me what I wanted to do. Go home, or do some sight-seeing?

I was afraid he would shoot down my idea when I posed it, but Steve actually relented without a fight. He didn't seem too bothered by the idea of visiting Dmitri. "Sure, I don't see why not. I have to stop by the, er, office anyways. But if anything happens, anything goes wrong, you promise to tell me right away?"

"Will you pick up?"

"Absolutely."

"Then yes," I replied as we stepped back out onto the street. "If anything happens, I'll call you. But nothing's going to happen."

Steve cast me a look, as if he knew better. But it was light-hearted, only teasing. "Yeah, because you avoid trouble so well."

"I try," I pouted, but slid into the truck without complaint. In fact, I felt a bit elated, despite the turn of events in Peggy's house. Had it been a little depressing, that second conversation? Yeah, I couldn't deny it. My curiosity still raged at who I reminded her of before that cough took her by surprise. On top of it all, I was still exhausted from yesterday, and sleeping on an actual bed felt really tempting.

At the same time, going back to Steve's apartment felt too soon, not when I still hadn't decided how or where I was going to tell him, and I didn't want to be within Kate's radius again so soon.

Especially not if she was going to threaten me again.

Besides all that, there was a certain relief to seeing Dmitri again. Around him, I felt normal, or about as normal as I could get. With all these questions still raging in my head, his presence was like a well-needed break.

Steve would drop me off there. Dmitri's mother's place in DC was, of course, impeccable. A late 1800's townhouse, it had three floors, all of which belonged to her. The exterior was a stone and brickwork with manicured shrubbery on the front lawn. All the windows I could see were shielded with gauzy lace curtains. There was even a maid, who answered the door when I rang the bell.

Dmitri came trotting down the steps of a large, winding staircase that seemed to occupy the exact center of the building. Looking up, I could see all the way up three floors to the top of the house. In jeans and a t-shirt, no shoes, Dmitri looked remarkably mundane under the dark coffered ceilings, the glossy hardwood floor and the overstuffed settee in the living room behind him.

"Not going to lie," Dmitri said after we shared a brief hug. "After all those missed text messages, I was afraid you weren't going to come."

"Oh right," I flushed, glancing away. "It's been, uh, a weird few days for me. Sorry about that."

"Oh?" Concern flickered across his face. "What happened?"

"Ah, well," I made a face, stuffing my hands in my pockets and wincing slightly as I tried to think of an elegant way of putting  _I had a panic attack over a dead guy._ "It's kind of a long story, but it's fine now, don't worry."

"Are you sure?"

His uncertainty touched me, the anxious worry that other people didn't push for with me. I tried to smile to ease him, "Yeah, I'm —"

" _Dmitri!_ " A voice shouted from up the stairs, cutting me off with a sharp ringing that made me flinch. " _Have you seen my blue notebook?_ "

"No, Mum!" Dmitri called back with an eyeroll; a safe bet since Diana couldn't see it, as her footsteps echoed down the stairs. He cut me a look and said in an undertone, "She's been looking for it for the past hour. I've been made to help her."

"How chivalrous of you."

That earned a snort, which Dmitri quickly smothered as Diana reached the landing, coming to an abrupt stop when her eyes landed on me.

She was dressed to the nines, as usual, in a crisp white blouse and a black pencil skirt — perfectly tailored, with a kind of quality fabric that was both sturdy and delicate at the same time. Diana's flushed cheeks and a few flyaway curls revealed the state of disarray she was truly in. "Oh. You again."

Not even feigning politeness this time. Well, at least she was being upfront about her dislike this time. I opened my mouth to attempt a cordial greeting on my part, but Diana just lifted a hand, waving me away as if I were some annoying fly. "Agh, I don't have time for this nonsense. Dmitri, I need to find that notebook before meeting my source today, I can't leave without it!"

"Yes, mum," Dmitri sighed as she rushed off to the left, disappearing deeper into the house. He gave me an apologetic look. "Sorry, this was not how I imagined today would go. She's not going to leave unless I find it first."

"I can help?" I offered with a shrug. I didn't like Diana, but if finding this damn notebook meant she'd leave faster, then I was all for it. "Three eyes are better than two. Er, I mean, six are better than four…"

"Forgot how to count so soon?" Dmitri flashed me a grin as he led the way to the right, into what looked like a library. "How soon your qualities as a tutor leave you."

"Ha-ha. If I'm that bad, then that means you must be worse."

Dmitri paused as he considered it, then shrugged, unbothered. He looked to me. "Who needs math when you're beautiful?"

"Oh, that's good," His joke made me laugh — but Dmitri only smiled at me, a pink in his cheeks before he eventually looked away. I would only wonder, too late, if he wasn't actually talking about himself in that moment.

Of course, it would take me eons to come to that conclusion, and by then I'd missed my chance to bring it up again in a not-weird way. As it was, Dmitri quickly busied himself with searching the library, and I followed suit. As he scanned the shelves, I checked around the seating area, under the velvet couch and ottoman, the loveseat, the stacks of books on the coffee table. Many were reference books, or historical biographies from the 20th century — mainly around the Cold War. They were only of mild interest to me, but I kept my focus on any book that was thin, blue, and small. I had only caught a brief glimpse of Diana's notebook before, but it was enough to know what to look for.

"That man you were with at the museum," Dmitri would call from the other end of the room, over the grind of drawers being opened and closed as he searched the cabinets under the shelving. "Steve, yes? You said he was family, but you never mentioned him before."

"Oh," I said, looking up from the pillows I'd removed from the couch. The underside didn't even have a single crumb or penny hiding within. How did Diana keep such a clean house? How did she  _lose_  anything in such a clean house? "Yeah, I guess you could say it's a recent development. He's not actually related to me, but he's a friend of my… mom."

A lie? Yes. But a feasible one, even if Steve himself didn't know much about her aside from what I'd told him.

But apparently Dmitri hadn't recognized Steve, so I doubted he could call me out on this particular lie, either. He replied, "Ah, I see. He lives here, then, in DC?"

"Yeah, does some mysterious work," I replied, replacing the couch cushions. "I haven't figured out what it is yet. He likes his secrets."

"Hm, I know the feeling," Dmitri laughed at that. "My mother tells me very little about what she does, too. She never tells me what she's working on or who she talks to. I think she does it to protect me, but it makes it, er, difficult to talk to her sometimes."

"Yeah." I muttered as I glanced over the side table in front of the window, took a half-hearted look into its one tiny drawer. Nothing but coasters. "I know that feeling pretty well."

"All I know," Dmitri sighed as he gave up on the cabinets. "Is that its big. ' _This is going to make a lot of important people angry_ ,' Mum said once. That's why she needs her notebook — she keeps everything in there. Of course, even if I do manage to find it, I'm not allowed to look inside."

As much as I didn't like Diana, I couldn't deny her line of work sounded interesting. Intrepid reporters were the kind of people who'd risk their lives for a story, for the truth. I'd met a few in Sokovia, and I knew the danger involved; the fact that Diana Hawkins, with her level of fame and acclaim, could manage such a lifestyle and still look like a superstar, I didn't know.

"After we find the stupid thing," Dmitri said at one point, already looking done with the whole ordeal. " _If_ , I should say — I suggest ice cream. She won't let me have any because of my diet, but she can't stop me if she's not here."

I grinned at that. "My lips are sealed."

"Oh, I know. She would kill you for letting it happen. Then me, for being so stupid as to trust you."

It was clear after five more minutes of searching that the notebook was not in the library. We were just moving on to the next room when Diana came storming past.

Now wearing heels that clicked across the floor at hair-trigger pace, she shouted, "I can't wait anymore! If I miss this, I'll lose my source. Dmitri, if you find it, text me immediately!"

And just like that, she flew out the front door, a storm of frustration and determined energy.

It wasn't until we passed the front stairs did Dmitri paused and point to another bag lying on the steps, that hadn't been there before.

"Agh, she forgot her second purse, hold on…" Dmitri muttered something under his breath in Russian as he grabbed the forlorn designer leather bag and rushed out the door after her. " _Hey, Mum!"_

I had just darted out the threshold, following Dmitri as he went after his mother. Diana, meanwhile, was already getting into her car, a sleek black sedan, slamming the door shut — apparently haven't heard her son calling out.

"Hey, Dmitri, wait up!" I called after him. I didn't know what it was about this family, but somehow I was constantly chasing after them today.

Dmitri was already halfway down the front steps when he turned to face me, an expectant smile on his face.

At the exact same time, Diana's car exploded.


	13. Part Two: The Curious Case of the Blue Notebook - Ch. 13

  
  
**\- PART TWO -**

**\- THE CURIOUS CASE OF THE BLUE NOTEBOOK -**

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen  
**

# ✮

* * *

_A great fiery plume in the sky._

"Amelia Fletcher, right? I'm Special Agent Barrigan, I'm in charge of this investigation. I'd like to ask you a few questions about what happened."

_The explosion knocked us off our feet. I had just enough time to grab Dmitri and pull him back before the worst of the blast hit us. Even from forty feet away, the heat was searing hot, and the stone steps beneath me heated in a flash._

"Yeah," I mumbled, arms around myself, staring at my shoes. Red and blue lights flashed outside. "Sure."

 _Ash and debris rained down on us, little metal pieces and shreds of paper. It burned my skin, but I didn't feel it. Something warm dripped down my chin, onto my shirt. Smoke clogged the air, thick, choking, acrid. I coughed, my eyes watering, and I squinted through the ashen haze._  
  
All I saw was Dmitri scrambling towards the burning, empty shell where his mother used to be.

"Can you tell me what happened right before the car exploded?"

A woman sat in front of me, dark hair swooped back in a prim bun. She sat on the coffee table in front of me, legs crossed with notebook in hand to take notes. Her eyes watched me carefully, but with a neutral expression.

Noon had come and passed in the hours following the explosion, but I wasn't hungry. Sitting in this room for hours, alone, all I could smell was the remnants of smoke, of burning, long after the fire department had put out the flames. I sat in on the couch in Diana's little office. It was a mess, papers everywhere — and that was before the police showed up. All around me were agents, detectives in black coats with 'FBI' labeled on the back in big, white block letters.

Diana's desk was surprisingly neat compared to the rest of the room. It had only an ink blotter, a lamp, a framed photograph, and thin laptop. Someone with her kind of work-load, I imagined a much bigger, more heavy duty set-up. There was a printer on a nearby shelf, and loose paper was everywhere. A nearly-full shredder sat next to her desk, next to an overflowing trash can. The floor was covered in debris, papers and notes and drawers — it seemed Diana had upended her office in search for her notebook, and didn't bother to pick up.

I looked away again, closing my eyes. "Dmitri had just run outside to give Diana — er, Ms. Hawkins, her purse she forgot. She'd just closed the door, so she didn't hear him calling out. I'd just come out the door after him when it — when everything —" I shook my head. "We tried to help, but there was nothing we could do. We called 911."

_Dmitri, running for the car. My ears were ringing, so I couldn't hear him shouting — screaming — but I knew what he was saying. The same word, over and over again._

_I grabbed his arm before he ever made it off the steps. He resisted, trying to throw me off. His sleeve ripped. I hung on as he kept fighting me, dragged him back as he continued to call out._

"And where was her son, Dmitri, during this?"

"He was with me the whole time." I glanced to my left, to the room next door. The kitchen, where Dmitri sat at the table, clothes rumbled and ashen, head in his hands, shoulders shaking softly. Another agent was trying to console him, but it was clear by the look on his face that Dmitri wasn't responding to any sympathy right now.

I looked back to the woman in front of me. Agent Barrigan. "He wanted to get closer, to-to save her but… I wouldn't let him. There was fire everywhere."

_Traffic on either side of the road came to a complete stop. The two of us just stared at the blackened crater in the street; Dmitri eventually stopped shouting and collapsed, tears streaming down his face. All I could do was hold him, as neighbors, drivers, and passerby all stopped and gawked._

A soft breeze blew through the open window. Nearby, an evidence tech was picking up shards of glass with tweezers and placing them in a plastic bag. The explosion had blown out all the windows on the block.

"And why were you here, Amelia?" Agent Barrigan asked, drawing my attention back once again.

Less than an hour ago, I had been hugging Dmitri on the stoop, smiling and laughing at dumb jokes, suffering through Diana's antics just to spend some time with him. "I was just visiting. He texted me earlier, inviting me over. I used to tutor him back in New York."

"Is that where you live? New York."

"Yeah. Queens."

"And why are you here in DC?"

"Spring break, visiting family." My mouth stumbled over my next words. "M-my dad is coming to pick me up. He lives here."

I didn't know how to explain Steve. He'd already been called, right after the police arrived, before the FBI took over. This was probably all over the news now. My mind was still grappling with how quickly everything happened — had Steve even made it to work before he got the call?

"You're estranged from your father?" Agent Barrigan cocked an eyebrow, scribbling something down.

I threw her a pointed look. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"It's just a question, Amelia. We have to cover all our bases."

"It's Mia."

"What?"

"Call me Mia," I said, leaning back on the couch, hands lying limply in my lap. The desire to fold my arms in a defensive position was strong, but I had no strength left. Although Dmitri wasn't strong, it felt like I'd used all my energy from holding him back. "And yeah, I guess you could say we're estranged. We were trying to fix it, though. You know, father-daughter bonding, have a relaxing trip, and all that." I snorted, but it was humorless. "Look how well that's going."

Agent Barrigan frowned, sympathy flickering across her face. She set down her notebook to study me for a moment. "I'm sorry, Mia. Did you know Diana Hawkins well?"

"No. I'd only met her twice before, at a dinner, then at a museum." Memories of Killian flashed in my mind. I blinked them away. "She didn't like me."

"You two had animosity?"

The word made me grimace. The act stretched the bandage on my chin — something had hit me in the face when the car exploded, and the first responders that had arrived afterwards had cleaned me up. Some of it, to evidence. "I guess. Maybe we got off on the wrong foot, I don't know. She saw my tattoo and I guess that was it for her. I was that bad influence she never wanted her son to hang around with."

"And how did that make you feel?"

Barrigan sounded like a therapist, and I tried not to laugh. "Kind of annoyed? I don't know, it didn't bother me much. Dmitri liked me, and that was enough. It's not like I hate her or anything. She's just unpleasant to be around."

The words felt toxic on my tongue. I didn't realize until afterwards I was still speaking of her as if Diana were still alive. It hit me like a train, and something in my chest locked up.

God, she was dead.

Diana Hawkins was dead.

I watched her die.

Fingers went cold, throat locked up. Something behind my eyes started to burn. "But I never wanted to see her hurt. Ms. Hawkins just loved her son. Maybe she was right about me."

"Hey, you did the right thing, Mia," Agent Barrigan rested a hand on my knee, just the tips of her fingers. She leaned in to speak softly, as if our conversation was private and not surrounded by a dozen other federal investigators. "You called for help and got inside where it was safe."

When I didn't say anything, Agent Barrigan sighed and withdrew her hand. "Would you like to take a break? I can get the rest of your statement later."

"No, no, I'm fine," I muttered, straightening up. I could still hear quiet sobbing in the other room. I knew I was Barrigan's best shot at getting a full witness report at the moment. And I wanted to help. "What else did you have?"

Barrigan hummed, checked her notes. "Alright. Did you notice anything unusual or suspicious when you first arrived this morning? Anyone that seemed out of place?"

I was silent as I scanned my memories, only to shake my head. Barrigan continued, "What about right before the explosion, just when you stepped outside? Did you see anyone? Maybe someone rushing away after the car exploded?"

Again I shook my head. I'd been so caught up with Dmitri that I didn't have time to notice the outdoor surroundings before the explosion. "It was too hard to see afterwards. The wind blew the smoke right towards us and the sound blew out my hearing… But I didn't notice anyone by Ms. Hawkins car when she got in. The street was empty."

"You saw nothing in the air? No projectiles?"

My melancholy subsided for a moment, staring up at Barrigan in surprise. "What, like a rocket?"

Barrigan raised her eyebrows, but her expression remained calm. "I don't know, did you see one?"

"No." I said, brow furrowing. "I didn't see anything in the air or flying. The explosion came from the car itself. Maybe… maybe underneath it."

"Underneath it?" Barrigan repeated, and in such an intensity that it had me tensing a little. She quickly wrote that down before looking at me again. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I think so. I mean, it was so fast, but I could see how the car went upwards like, the blast came from below like…" my breath caught in my throat, afraid to say the word. I dropped my shoulders. "...like a bomb."

It wasn't like it was unprovable. The car had been thrown upwards and landed nearly ten feet away from its original position. One could see where the original blast took place, the ground blackened and scorched, compared to where the wreckage now stood.

Agent Barrigan didn't say anything, just continued to write. I watched her for a moment, before asking, "It was a bomb, wasn't it?"

"Our techs are still checking to confirm that," Agent Barrigan said without looking up from her notes. "But yes, it is a possibility. Did you know anything about what Ms. Hawkins was working on recently? Did she ever discuss it around you?"

"She hated me, so no," I said dryly. "Dmitri told me earlier, before she went outside, that she was working on some big project. That she was leaving to meet some, I don't know, a source of hers. One that she couldn't afford to miss. That's why she left in such a hurry and forgot her purse. Dmitri and I were helping her find her notebook before she decided to leave without it."

"Notebook?" Agent Barrigan tilted her head up at me. "What's so special about this notebook?"

"I don't know, she keeps all her notes in it, I guess," I felt ridiculous answering these questions, as if I were the foremost expert on Diana Hawkins life. I had only caught glimpses of it, and to be honest I wasn't  _too_ curious about learning more about her personal affairs. "I'd only seen it once before. Just this small blue notebook that fits in her purse. We never found it."

"Hmm." Barrigan frowned to herself, then leaned back and called out to someone by the staircase. "Hey, Dean! Anyone spot a blue notebook anywhere?"

A male called down the hall. "Blue notebook? Uhh, negative, Barrigan."

"Just keep an eye out for me, will ya?"

"On it!"

Agent Barrigan returned to me. "So did Diana Hawkins seem nervous to you today? Did her behavior strike you as unusual?"

I shrugged. "No more than usual. She was upset she couldn't find her notebook, enough that she didn't even care that I'd showed up."

"Hm," Barrigan hummed again, tapping her pen against the page. "Thank you, Mia, you've been very helpful. Do you mind if I have your contact information, in case we have any follow-up questions?"

After I relayed the information, Special Agent Barrigan thanked me once more before getting up and leaving the room. "When your father arrives, you'll be free to go."

Left to my own devices, I just sat there like a lump, playing numbly with the bottle-cap bracelet and watching as everyone moved around me. Agent Barrigan went off to share information with her colleagues. Someone came by with a glass of water for me, but I let it stand on the table, untouched.

I couldn't hear Dmitri crying anymore.

I wanted to go to him; at the same time, I didn't want to move. When the explosion first happened, Dmitri kept trying to push me away from him, and protested about going inside, even after he'd lost the will to fight back. I wasn't sure I was his favorite person to see at the moment.

And if I were him, I'd probably want to be by myself, and not have to sit back and watch as the FBI tore apart my whole house.

My eyes wandered the room once more. A tech went by, kicking up some paper as he went, clearing away the floor near a shelf on the wall.

A bit of blue peeked out from underneath.

I had just opened my mouth to speak when the front door banged open, and a team of men in black suits walked in.

Everyone in the vicinity stopped what they were doing to stare at the intruders — clearly, not FBI, I thought to myself, considering their very different  _aesthetic_. While the FBI here were all professional and hard at work, many had frumpy clothes or wore old suits. Special Agent Barrigan, the head investigator, looked the sharpest of them all, but even she couldn't hold a candle to the identical-looking team that poured in at once.

"Hey, this is an ongoing crime scene —" Barrigan barked out, storming up to face them.

"Take it easy, Agent Barrigan," The man at the front was shorter than the rest, bald with tan skin, glasses, and a nice tie. He pulled out a badge from his inner coat pocket. "I'm Agent Sitwell. We're with SHIELD, and we're taking over this investigation."

Everyone stared.

I was beside myself in frozen silence, heart pounding. SHIELD? My heart jumped a beat. Why the hell was  _SHIELD_ interested in Diana's murder? Didn't they have bigger fish to fry? Honestly, the only reason why I thought the FBI got took over from local police was because Diana was such a big fish, that she was a famous reporter. Or, you know, because it really was a bomb so of course they'd be involved.

But SHIELD…?

I clearly wasn't the only one who thought this was unusual. The other FBI agents didn't move from their spot, even as the SHIELD guys started throwing pointed looks. Barrigan was standing her ground, and so was her team.

My eyes cast down to the notebook hiding under the shelf. Then back up to the confrontation before me. Everyone was watching the argument in the hallway. No one turned their heads when I slowly rose to my feet and started edging towards the opposite wall.

"What?" Agent Barrigan demanded, while the rest of the FBI shifted around her, quiet mutters flying around. "On whose orders?"

Now standing next to the shelf, I could only see Agent Barrigan's back through the office doorway. Her hands were on her hips, head bobbing animatedly. Without looking down, I stretched out my fingers behind me and gently bent my knees until I was almost crouching.

"The Director, of course," Agent Sitwell said with a polite smile. The rest of the SHIELD men showed their badges, too. They weren't too shy about flashing their concealed weapons in the process, either. "Fury, you know him? A little bit higher on the ladder than your own boss, Barrigan."

Still watching them, I leaned back a little, feeling along the edge of the bookshelf behind my. Fingers tracing the hardwood, searching beneath the dusty little crevice between the shelf and the floor. Where is it, where is it...

But Barrigan wasn't having it. "How is any of this your jurisdiction —?"

"If you want to make a complaint, take it to your supervisor," Agent Sitwell replied, still with that same smile, completely unflappable in Barrigan's clear anger. "In the meantime, I'm going to have to ask you and your men to clear out. We can take it from here."

As he said that, another line of people came marching in; SHIELD techs and analysts, I imagined as I stood up with everyone else. The FBI were abuzz, shuffling around in confusion as Barrigan tried and failed to negotiate once again.

Heart skipping at the sight, I nearly stood up again in alarm. Then my fingers brushed against something soft and smooth —  _ha_! Got it. When SHIELD agents shuffled into the room, I returned to a standing position, tucking both hands behind my back and pressing my shoulder-blades into the shelves behind me, the edge digging into my skin. The techs only glanced my way once before claiming the space, setting up heavy briefcases and canvass bags on the coffee table and chairs.

"We're gonna have to ask you to leave the room, miss," one of the agents said to me. "This is SHIELD evidence now."

I nodded mutely and dropped my arms from behind my back, hands empty. The bracelet clattered against my wrist, and I tucked my sleeve over it to quiet the noise. In the hallway, I bumped into Agent Barrigan, who still looked pissed, arguing with Sitwell. "Oh, sorry —"

Sitwell glanced from one tall lady to the other — me. He still had that smile on his face. "You're one of the witnesses, yes? The friend of Mr. Hawkins over there?"

"Y-yeah," I frowned, glancing at Barrigan before returning to Sitwell. "Do you want my statement, too?"

"No, no, we'll just take whatever the FBI gathered," Sitwell gave me what I assumed to be a reassuring look, but it had the opposite effect. In any case, Barrigan scoffed, as if she'd rather do anything  _but_  give Sitwell her notes. Still, he held out his hand. "Miss Barrigan?"  
  
She glared at him. "It's  _Agent_." And slapped her little pad into his hand before stalking out.

Sitwell didn't take his eyes off me, maintaining that serene expression without a flinch. "If you remember anything else, please contact us, Mia."

With that, he handed me a business card, before puttering away. I didn't recall giving him my nickname.

As I was considering my exit, my phone buzzed — a text from Steve.  _Outside, on the corner. They won't let me get any closer._

Sighing, I sent a quick response back before reconsidering. Instead of heading towards the front door, I went to the kitchen.

A SHIELD agent, a woman, had taken over the previous FBI's place — but she was getting about as far as the last guy, it seemed. As I approached, she sucked in her teeth and made off for a glass of water, leaving Dmitri to sit at the table, his head hanging.

Touching his shoulder, I spoke quietly, "Hey… I have to go soon. Are you going to be okay?"

The look Dmitri gave me when he lifted his head was all the answer I needed. Heart aching, I sat down in the seat opposite him, taking the agent's spot. I didn't take my hand away. "I can stay, if you want. I don't want you to be alone here with…" I glanced around the kitchen. SHIELD agents going through the silverware cabinets, the fridge, the trash. "... these guys."

Dmitri surprised me by shaking his head. His voice was choked, raw, just barely intelligible. "No, I'll be okay. I-I'm waiting for Mr. Fowler, the family attorney He's Mum's only…" he coughed, hiding the way his voice broke. " _Was_  her only friend."

Well, that was a relief. It was bad enough he had a bunch of strangers going through his home, I couldn't imagine having to bear that, completely alone. In a foreign country on top of it all. "Does your father know yet?"

Dmitri shook his head. "I haven't been able to reach him. Mr. Fowler says he'll take care of it, but…" He pressed his lips together and squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't know."

Highly aware that I was surrounded on all sides by government agents, I said, "Well, you can call me any time, okay? You need anything, just ask."

Eyes still closed, Dmitri nodded silently. Lifting one pale hand, he took mine still on his shoulder, pulling it away to hold it in his lap. His body was slumped, broken; the delicate and refined frame of a ballet dancer, crumpled and falling apart. But he held onto my hand so fiercely his hand shook. I didn't say anything, just wove my fingers through his, and tightened my grip.

We sat there, together, in silence.

"Ahem."

Both of us looked up to the female agent standing before us, coffee cup in hand. She was glaring at me, and only used a jerk of her chin to tell me to skedaddle.

Not about to be intimidated, I glared back, and decided to take my time as I stood up and turned back to Dmitri, still holding his hand. Just to stick it to the agent, I spoke in Russian. "Помните. Просто позвоните мне. В любой момент."

Dmitri's only sign of surprise was a blink. Then he nodded again, giving no answer as to whether he would or not, and gently released my hand, letting his own drop, limp again. I pretended not to notice the agent still glaring at me as I walked away, giving Dmitri one last squeeze on his shoulder before leaving.

I couldn't get out of that house fast enough.

The sight of the afternoon sun nearly stopped me in my tracks when I hit the sidewalk. The late, warm air and the sun lowering in the sky was so vastly different than when I was last outside. Jesus, how long had I been trapped in there?

I could see what Steve meant when he said that he couldn't get close to the house. The entire block on which Diana's house stood was completely blocked off by sawhorses on either end, manned by police cars and fire department vehicles. Other cars lined the streets closest to the house — agent's vehicles. Aside from the vans marked with obvious logos, I couldn't tell apart SHIELD from the FBI.

The edges were packed with an audience, curious bystanders and news crews alike. People wanted to know what happened, people wanted a good look. This was a rich, quiet neighborhood, who the hell gets attacked here? Did someone really die? Had someone caught it on video? Where's the body?

It was only seeing them did I realize I couldn't leave the block that way. The reporters and journalists were starving for any information, and if they saw someone like me, a witness who just walked away, they were going to come at me like hounds. And I was done answering questions for today.

Walking down the street, where my actions were hidden by the larger movements of the law enforcement around me, I slipped into the small alley between two townhouses — cutting across the lawn of Diana's neighbor, jumping over their garden wall; startled a German Shepherd on the other side; booked it to the next wall and vaulted over before the dog could take a bite out of me; then cut through the alley so I was on the next block behind the Hawkin's place; and finally made the long way around back to the street, from behind.

Steve was leaning against his truck, parked about half a block behind all the gathered news trucks. Traffic had to be diverted around the mess, and there was plenty of honking and shouting. It was very different than the comparatively quiet interior of Diana's home. He spotted me just as I turned the corner and crossed the street. As I got closer, he straightened, brow furrowing as he glanced towards the street I was on, to the one I just exited. "Are you okay?"

It was the first question he asked; I was starting to get used to it, except this time the intensity startled me. It wasn't the quiet concern and disappointment from early this morning. This was the blatant fear and worry of a man who got the call that his kid was a witness to a murder.

I paused, thinking to myself. In all the time I was stuck in that house, not once did anyone say the word 'murder'.

Or 'assassination.'

"...Yeah." I mumbled, scratching at the thin bandage on my jaw. Steve took my chin between two fingers to get a better look at it, turning my face away. "It's just a flesh wound. I got hit with... shrapnel." the word was hard to say for some inexplicable reason. "I got lucky."

I wasn't an idiot. I knew if I'd been any closer to that blast I'd probably be filled with holes right now. Surviving the explosion had nothing to do with skill.

I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Again.

Either way, Steve didn't make a comment. He let go, studying me for a moment longer. "And your friend…?"

"He's," I inhaled deeply, unsure how to describe it. "Pretty bad. Really bad. Not hurt, but…"

_He lost his mom._

I knew only too well what that was like.

Thankfully, Steve seemed to understand. He drew me in a hug, and I just stood there, trembling quietly. Ever since the bomb, I felt strangely numb; even though I knew Diana was dead, that I was never seeing her again, it didn't feel quite real. I hadn't had such a close brush with death in a while that I was starting to wonder if I even understood the severity of the situation. A part of me seemed like it didn't.

It felt wrong, somehow. But I couldn't turn it off, either.

"I just want to go home," I whispered into his shoulder, closing my eyes. Before, I wanted to cry. Now the tears wouldn't come.

* * *

# ✮✮✮

* * *

The sky was completely dark by the time we made it back to Steve's apartment.

Traffic had been atrocious throughout the city, not just in Diana's neighborhood. Downtown seemed to have it pretty bad, too, and when Steve turned on the radio to fill the silence in the cabin, the local news station was reporting on a wild police chase through downtown. A runaway driver that apparently escaped. Civilians and police alike had been killed in the rampage.

I just dropped my head into my hand, leaning against the door. What the hell was going on today? It seemed like all of DC was just losing its mind.

Then the report switched to breaking news — Diana Hawkins, Pulitzer prize winner and world-renowned reporter, pronounced dead by federal officials. Steve quickly changed the channel before the report could describe the cause of death.

It wasn't until I was climbing the steps up to the apartment, just in front of Steve, did I hear a door above opening and closing, and my heart skipped a beat.

Oh shit.

Kate.

I came to an abrupt stop on the stairs, turning around to face Steve. I was only a few feet below the landing, just out of line of sight. "Steve, I have to tell you something."

Steve blinked at me, hand on the railing as he began to frown. Perhaps he noticed the sudden panic in my face. "What's wrong?"

Until now, I had completely forgotten about Kate. Diana's death had completely overwhelmed every previous issue that had been plaguing me today, and only now I realized my mistake. The missed opportunity.

"It's about —"

"Oh, hey guys," Kate's voice cut me off.

I spun around again, back stiff and straight, as Steve came up next to me with a small smile. Tired, but not entirely unguarded. "Hey, sorry if we woke you up, I know its late —"

"Oh, it's no worries," Kate giggled lightly, gesturing with the basket of laundry she was carrying. "Just got back from a late shift, decided to do some chores."

As they exchanged a brief conversation, I just stood there in glowering silence, finger tapping impatiently on the handrail.  _Idiot idiot idiot_. I wanted to kick myself, as I watched Steve's expression, the smile, the laugh. He had no idea. He had no idea and it was my fault.

I hadn't told him about how SHIELD had taken over Diana's murder investigation, either. I was still digesting it myself, and thought I'd have enough time to explain it to Steve once I could speak again. He hadn't pressed the issue; maybe he didn't think anything suspicious about it at all. Or maybe he did, and was keeping it to himself so as not to upset me.

Well, ship sailed.

Kate, for her part, pretended not to notice me at all, aside from her brief greeting. As Steve made to sidle past her, she said over her shoulder. "Hey, by the way, I think you left your stereo on."

Steve did a slight double-take, glancing towards the door, then back at Kate. For a second, he lost that bashful smile.

Instantly, my hackles were up — as if they weren't already, but now something felt really  _off_. It wasn't until Kate mentioned it that I actually heard it, too; soft band music, muffled and echoing from Steve's apartment door.

Steve's eyes flicked to me, and I gave only the slightest shake of my head. Neither of us had been in his apartment since we'd left the previous day. Not once had he ever played music.

It was only a moment of silent communication. The look on Steve's face was neutral, but a dangerous neutral; the kind where he didn't want you to know he knew something was up. And with the flick of a switch, that old smile was back, and he shrugged at Kate, like he'd made a mistake. "Oh, right. Thank you. Uh, actually —"

Kate had just been about to turn back down the stairs when he caught her attention again. Steve held up one finger as he padded his pockets with the other. "I think I left my keys in the car. I'll be right back."

And with that, he backtracked down the landing and began down the flight of steps again. I turned to follow, but he held out a hand to stop me, still with that forced, too-light smile. "No, no, its okay, Mia. Just… just stay with Kate, I'll only be a sec."

I was a little disappointed, but didn't argue as Steve continued his way down. I settled myself with the fact that we were at least on the same page; it was a diversion. Something was wrong with the apartment, and he was going to check it out another way.

Staying behind was just to protect me, I knew, but I couldn't help but feel it might've been different if I'd just been smart enough, fast enough to tell Steve the truth beforehand.

When he vanished from sight, I turned to face Kate. With her on the landing and me a step below, our gazes met exactly. She met me glare for glare.

"You didn't tell him," Kate said. It was a simple, flat statement. But with the way it was phrased, if I didn't know any better, I'd say she sounded relieved.

I didn't bother to feign ignorance. "I was going to."

Kate's dark eyes flashed dangerously, and she leaned forward as I stepped up onto the landing next to her. Setting down her dirty laundry, she dropped her voice to a whisper, "Mia, please, you need to trust me —"

I whirled around on her, hissing, "Are you  _serious_ right now?"

I hated that I had forgotten, but this was a new kind of angry. To be honest I was a little preoccupied with the new problems I was facing right now, to be dealing with Kate again. The fact that she was still trying to convince me meant she wholeheartedly believed in her task, at least as far as I had it figured, and I had enough.

"Of course I'm serious!" Kate snapped, completely misinterpreting my tone. Still, she kept her voice in an undertone as we rounded each other in front of her door. "This is my  _job!_  Don't stand there and tell me SHIELD wouldn't honestly do its damnedest to protect one of its greatest assets."

"Yeah, by  _spying_ on them. That's a funny way to show how much you trust someone."

"It's not about trust," Kate said, inhaling deeply. "It's about safety. Captain America's health and well-being is  _essential_  to SHIELD, and we're willing to do whatever it takes to make sure its interests are properly taken care of."

"Does SHIELD also take over FBI murder investigations?" I demanded, the image of Sitwell's infuriatingly calm smile still embedded in my mind. "Where does safety come into that?"

Kate paused. She frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, please," I wasn't going to fall for it. "It's been on the news all day, I bet. Diana Hawkins killed in a sudden attack and now SHIELD's kicked all other agencies off the case. Why are they interested in her death?"

"What? That's not..." She shook her head. For a split second, Kate looked genuinely surprised; as if this was the first time she ever heard this information. At her reaction, a seed of doubt wormed its way into my chest. Did she really not know?

And just like that, it was gone. Kate inhaled and straightened up. "I'm not informed of every aspect in SHIELD's activities. I have to keep my focus —"

_BANG._

Something like a clap of thunder interrupted her — three small bursts in succession, distant and muffled, shaking the walls and floor. Kate and I jumped in surprise, turning our heads towards the noise. The sounds had been instantly recognizable.

And they had come from Steve's apartment.

Gunshots.

My blood went cold.

Apparently coming to the same conclusion, Kate whipped around and reached into her laundry basket. I jumped back when she pulled out a black handgun, my instinct wanting to run.

But Kate didn't turn the weapon on me. Instead, she threw open her front door and ran into the hallway. "Stay here!"

I didn't listen. Only afterwards would I consider the possibility Kate said that just to protect me, but at the moment it just sounded like she wanted me out of the way. Probably both.

Whatever the case, I was almost directly behind her when Kate busted down Steve's door.

One, two, three kicks and it crashed inwards, flying off its hinges. "Captain Rogers!" She called as she entered, gun held up as she slunk in at a measured pace.

Steve's head appeared around the corner of the dark foyer, looking alarmed to see Kate in her pink scrubs and a gun. I hesitated in the doorway, relieved to see that Steve was okay.  
  
"Captain," Kate said, approaching him quickly, gun turned towards the outer wall, where the gunshots had originated from. In an even, but slightly urgent tone, she continued, "I'm Agent Thirteen from SHIELD Special Service."

"... Kate?" Steve asked, belatedly, still taking in the sight of the gun in her hand.

"I'm assigned to protect you —"

"On whose order?" Steve demanded, brows drawing down into a scowl as Kate surveyed the living room. I stepped in just as she cleared the space, and noticed the floor by the record player was covered in dust, three gaping holes in the wall behind a corner seat.  
  
Kate came to a stop as she turned towards the kitchen. A small, almost imperceptible gasp escaped her lips. "His."

At Steve's feet lied the prone body of a man — in torn dark clothes and covered in blood and wounds, I almost didn't recognize him until I saw his face. The eyepatch.

Director Fury.

Kate — Agent 13 — dropped down next to him, checking Fury's pulse before pulling a radio from her hip that I hadn't spotted before. "Foxtrot is down, he's unresponsive. I need EMTs."

While she spoke, Steve's eyes landed on me and he started, as if just realizing I was there. With a jerk, he took my arm. "Mia! Get away from the window, it's not safe —"

As if he needed to tell me. I complied, nodding dumbly, throat locked up with fear; Steve didn't let go of my arm. It was only with him placing me between himself and the wall did I realize he was carrying his shield. Had it been in the apartment this entire time? I felt stupid for not noticing it before.

Heart pounding, I looked out the window next to the ruined wall. There was a building across the street, it's rooftop several floors higher than ours. And at the corner, the hunched figure of sniper. Street lights gleamed off the scope.

My heart stopped in my throat. I only had a chance to point, gasping, "Steve —!"

" _Do we have a twenty on the shooter?_ " Agent 13's radio crackled.

Steve's eyes flicked from me to the window where I had once been standing. The way his eyes narrowed said he saw what I did; the sniper bolted, disappearing from sight. As he turned, the streetlights glinted off a metallic arm.

"Tell them I'm in pursuit," Steve said, before launching himself through the window.

A curse few from my lips as glass shattered everywhere. I covered my face, and when I looked up again, I saw that a window on the other building had been smashed through from where Steve had landed. I took a step towards it, inclined to follow.

"Mia!" Agent 13 shouted from the kitchen. "I need help!"

I paused, indecision in my gut. I already knew, too late, that I had missed my chance to tell Steve the truth; as I reluctantly turned back around, I wondered what the fallout of that would be. If only I had remembered during the car ride back…

Well, it was too late now. I steeled my resolve, rearranging my priorities. Steve was fine, for the most part; Director Fury was not.

"What do you need?" I called back, coming around to enter the kitchen.

"I need you to find me a first aid kit!" Agent 13 told me, still kneeling by Fury's side. She had lifted him gently to feel underneath him, and her hand came back bloody. Agent 13's face blanched. "And some blankets! We need to stop the bleeding immediately!"

I only nodded once before taking off, unable to speak. There wasn't much I could say anyways. My mind was still reeling from what just happened.

I came to a stop down the hallway; the apartment was almost completely dark aside from the kitchen, and I didn't bother to turn on any of the lights as I went through. Didn't need them. Throwing open the folding doors, I scanned the shelves.

As I pushed aside random boxes and crates, I realized my fingers had gone cold.

First Diana, now Fury. I realized I was breathing too fast, and had to take in a deep breath and hold it, trying to calm my nerves. It wasn't a coincidence, was it? It couldn't be. Two attacks in such a quick succession, SHIELD's involvement, something had to be going on.

The blue notebook burned into my back. Unable to take it any longer, I reached behind me and pulled the thin book from where it was tucked into the waist of my joggers. The elastic, stretchy material had held it firmly in place ever since I picked it up at Diana's. My shirt and oversized jacket had hidden the shape of it against my back.

The cover was slightly moist, thanks my sweat. But I didn't notice as I quickly surveyed the hallway around me. Agent 13 couldn't see me from where she was in the kitchen, and she was preoccupied, talking into her radio. SHIELD was on their way.

I couldn't let them find this. I had no doubt I'd be searched, and the book would be discovered. If they happened to open it, there was no way I could convince them it was really mine.

They'd search the whole apartment.

My heartbeat pounded in my ears. Where the hell could I hide this, where SHIELD wouldn't find it?

At the end of the hall was a window, a fire escape.

Time was wasting. Glancing over my shoulder, I rushed past Steve's door, then the bathroom. Trying to keep as quiet as possible, and hopefully not get caught in what would look like  _another_  escape attempt, I gently slid the window open and slid outside.

It was the opposite end of the apartment from where Fury had been attacked. Here, the place was quiet, almost peaceful. The fire escape didn't even so much as shudder as I dropped down into a crouch, taking a quick gander to figure out my options.

There was nothing around me. As most fire escapes were empty due to safety protocols, there weren't exactly a lot of places to hide something. I started to panic. I didn't have time to fuck around. A man was dying, and as much as I didn't know or trust him, I didn't want him to die.

The notebook burned in my hand. I had a feeling more than one life was at stake right now.

Then I looked down, and smiled.

The apartment below Steve's had a small grill in the corner of their fire escape landing. Against fire code? Hell yeah, but one man's lawbreaking was another girl's opportunity to break even more laws.

Moving fast, I dropped down a flight of stairs as fast as I could without making a sound. Opening the grill, I found it cold and empty — hardly the season to be making use of this. I slipped the notebook beneath the metal grate and closed the lid, praying that the neighbors didn't suddenly change their mind in the next few days and have an illegal barbecue.

Then back up the fire escape and through the window I went.

"Mia! You there?" Agent 13 called again, voice rising an octave in her urgency. Maybe even panic. "What the hell's taking so long?"

"I'm right here!" I came rushing back, blankets under one arm and a red box in the other. I dropped down next to her, out of breath. "Sorry! I couldn't find — the kit was in the bathroom under a bunch of — never mind, doesn't matter! What do you need?"

"Blankets first!" Agent 13 took one and padded it beneath Fury's back. She took another and started tearing it into strips. "Get me any gauze you have in there, any bandages. We'll need to move him into a recovery position so he doesn't breath in any blood he's lost. Can you do that?"

I felt a twinge of annoyance at the question but didn't argue the point. I didn't need to prove to Kate that I already knew basic first aid procedure — now was not the time. As I opened the first aid kit, nearly snapping the top off its hinges in my haste, I kept glancing down at Fury. He was unconscious, unmoving, eyes closed, but I could still catch the slight wheeze of his breath. There were numerous fresh lesions on his face, and his left arm appeared broken. A little older, blood having already dried — not sustained from the recent shooting.

Almost as if he'd been in a nasty car accident.

My hands shook slightly as I handed Agent 13 pad after pad of gauze. She kept applying them to Fury's chest, but they were soaked almost instantly. "Help me put pressure on the wounds!"

I did as I was told, holding down the gauze, then strips of padded blanket, over Fury's chest. Blood seeped up and through my fingers, horribly warm.

I couldn't tear my eyes away. Fury's wounds were in a small cluster in his chest — perhaps only inches apart entering his back. Expert shooting, center mass, done blind through a wall.

It was sheer mastery.

Even if I hadn't seen the form on the roof, I could've guessed who it was.

I didn't say anything to Agent 13. How could I? My visual had been too quick, too blurry — and the sniper gone too soon. The glint of his arm had been only a brief snapshot before vanishing into the night. Really, I only knew it because my gut told me it was true. Unless Steve actually managed to catch him, and prove me right, I was only guessing. Paranoid guesses.

The Winter Soldier was here. He was in DC.

* * *

  


art by me :)


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made a small scene change in ch. 8 where they go to the WWII memorial instead of the Vietnam Memorial…, The site actually has a thematic line that I'm pretty sure the writers of CATWS borrowed from, so it felt important to change it. ANYWAYS, this is me saying I also just didn't know there was a WWII memorial in DC, and now I do.
> 
> oNWARDS.

 

**Chapter Fourteen  
**

# ✮

* * *

The Potomac was beautiful in the morning.

The sunrise cast the rippling waters in vibrant pink and orange; the Lincoln Memorial, just on the other side of the shore, glowed in brilliant yellow. It cast out a long black shadow across the water. The same Lincoln Memorial I had visited only two days ago with Steve, when everything felt right and normal for once in my life.

Now it looked tiny and distant from the Triskelion; I sat alone watching the sunrise from a board room, thirty floors up. The walls were soundproof, and the carpeted floor muffled sound. The only noise came from the slight creak of the chair I was sitting in, or the ping when I touched the fancy class table. It was a nice change after a long night in the hospital.

A long day  _and_  night.

I had waited outside while doctors and nurses performed emergency surgery on Director Nick Fury. There was a private viewing; for loved ones, I guess. But only SHIELD agents arrived. A dark-haired woman and the Black Widow, who only glanced at me once before entering, and not at all when she left.

I didn't ask if I was allowed to watch. I didn't want to.

The surgery had lasted for two desperate hours. But it hadn't been enough.

Steve had stopped Romanoff in the hallway just before she could disappear. They had a hushed conversation, but even surrounded by dozens of security personnel, I still managed to pick up on their conversation twenty feet away.

"Why was Fury in your apartment?" Natasha had whirled on him first.

Steve appeared taken aback. "I don't know."

Nearby was a man refilling a vending machine. Natasha's eyes narrowed. "You're a terrible liar."

And that was the end of it; from the other end of the hall, a man in a tactical suit called Steve; he was tall, with cropped black hair and a jawline that could cut diamonds. He had a deep, gravelly voice, and I didn't fail to notice how his shirt revealed thick biceps, a level of muscle that said you didn't want to end up in the wrong side of a fight with him. Everything about the guy seemed to be hard lines and chiseled edges. Like the others, the man seemed to be a member of SHIELD — ordering Steve for his presence back at base, wherever that was.

The man, whom I later learned went by Rumlow, seemed to know Steve, from the way he used "Cap." He, along with a STRIKE team, escorted us out of the hospital.

It was around that time I started to figure out just who Steve was working for.

It was also the last I saw Steve.

But he was somewhere here. The Triskelion, SHIELD's HQ in the heart of DC, heavily protected on an island in the Potomac; there was only one bridge on or off. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, half a dozen helicopters circled the sky. The whole place was on high alert after Fury was pronounced dead; I had the distinct feeling that not even the President of the United States had this level of security.

The AC had already kicked in, selling cool air across my exposed arms. SHIELD agents had taken my jacket, covered in Fury's blood, to have it cleaned. My hair, still drying, dripped water down my back. After they had removed all the blood from my skin, I had been able to take a shower at one of the locker rooms here. I regretted having only brought a light change of clothes; the skull graphic on my tank top felt pretty tasteless at the moment.

They still had my shoes, though, and I didn't have a second pair. For hours I had been waiting here, watching the sky turn from black to blue.

I spun mindlessly in the swivel chair.

"Amelia, right?" behind me, the singular door opened. Caught off guard, I spun in my seat to stare at the man who just entered; late-sixties or early seventies, he was tall and bespoke in a gray suit; tailored, Italian. He was the kind of man who aged well, it seemed, with a full head of nearly blond hair and a handsome face that echoed of a former youthfulness. A pair of tortoiseshell spectacles perched on his nose, seeming to add a slight grandfatherly note to his otherwise professional look. He seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn't recall the last place I might have seen him.

I could only nod silently. He looked so dignified, so elegant, that I felt a blush rise to my cheeks. I'd just been caught spinning around in a chair, like some errant child waiting to see the school principal.

If he at all disapproved, the man gave no indication. He offered a kind smile as he shut the door and approached the opposite end of the table. "I apologize for the wait, it's been, er, a trying time here at SHIELD."

I tilted my head, frowning. "Who are you?"

The man blinked up at me, appearing startled for a moment. "Oh, right, of course." He chuckled and shook his head. "I guess it speaks to my arrogance how I simply expect everyone in this building to know who I am. Allow me to introduce myself — Alexander Pierce, Secretary to the World Security Council and… and current head of SHIELD."

These last words were strained. For a second, Pierce's eyes filled with emotion, before he looked down again, placing both hands on the back of the chair in front of him. Taking a moment to recompose himself, Pierce sighed and said, "Sorry, I'm still not used to… well, anything, at the moment. Life comes at you fast, as the youth say these days."

That got me to giggle despite myself. Then I stopped, crushed by embarrassment. Laughing at a time like this seemed inappropriate.

But the name did strike a chord with me. I'd heard of the World Security Council, but only in relation to the Incident. And, of course, their decision on how to solve the alien invasion attacking New York.

That sobered me up pretty fast. "The same World Security Council that ordered a nuke on Manhattan?"

"I was against that so-called solution moment it had been suggested," Pierce said, with a sudden firmness that said he disapproved of the implied accusation. He leveled me with a straight stare, tucking his hands behind his back. "Fury and I had both agreed on that part. To mark New York as a total loss was a grievous error on the Council's part, and I am still ashamed that I allowed the nuclear option to ever get as far as it did. I'd also like to offer my condolences; I was informed recently that your mother died in the same Incident. I can only imagine how you must feel towards the Council at this moment."

That surprised me. I figured SHIELD would do a background search on me, but Pierce said it in such a sympathetic way that made it seem like he, I don't know, actually  _cared_. He gave off every sense of being an in-the-blood politician, but his level of candor was unexpected. And, to be honest, maybe even unprecedented.

"You don't seem so bad," I eventually relented, feeling bad for assuming the Council was just this evil hivemind of power and idiocy.

Alexander Pierce seemed pleased by that, and laughed quietly. "Well, I'm glad I met  _someone_ 's approval today. Fury had made leading SHIELD seem so… simple. But finding the righteous path to take in the midst of all this mess is by far one of the hardest things I've ever done."

I didn't know what to say to that, beyond a mild agreement. It was at this point I realized that, despite all this talk, I still didn't know what he wanted. Or why Alexander Pierce, former Secretary and current head of SHIELD, was now talking to  _me_. "I guess it must be pretty bad if it's you talking to me, and not anyone else."

Pierce conceded the point with another humble nod. "I'm here because someone killed my friend, Amelia. And you tried to save his life."

Something tightened in my chest. "He still died, though."

"And yet, you tried nonetheless."

"Well, my other option was just stand there being useless, so it seemed like the obvious choice." I also got yelled at by Agent 13, who had a gun, and that was a pretty convincing argument for me.

"Well, I envy your level of clarity in times of crisis," Pierce said, still with that sad, soft smile. He ambled his way around the table, walking along it until he pulled out a seat only a few from mine. With the sigh of a much, much older man, he sank into the chair, hands clasped and head bowed. "It is the rare person that can carry both discipline and grace under pressure. I find that I am not one of those people, which is why I'm here to talk to you, Amelia, about what happened. I need to know everything before I can figure out what the right move might possibly be."

He came for my statement. The head of SHIELD came to personally hear my statement for himself.

I tried not to feel daunted. But images of Fury's body, his blood on my hands, still filled my head. And this was Fury's friend, now facing me.

No one, besides the paramedics, had asked me what happened yet. Being left up here to stew for the early morning hours had me thinking I was in trouble, like SHIELD was prepping me for an interrogation.

But the look Alexander Pierce was giving me right now, he wasn't here to interrogate. He just wanted the truth.

So that's what I gave him. Taking a moment to collect my thoughts, my eyes dropped down to MJ's bracelet, and as I toyed with it, I was thankful SHIELD hadn't taken this away for evidence, too. I summarized what happened up to the point when Agent 13 busted the door down. I began to describe what I had seen inside, and quickly found myself too speechless to continue.

Pierce simply inclined his head and completed it for me. "You found Director Fury unconscious. Correct?"

"Y-yeah," I pressed a hand to my face, closing my eyes. This time, I wanted to focus on the visual, on the memories that for now seemed permanently ingrained in my consciousness. "H-he was bleeding pretty bad. His arm looked broken and there were lacerations all over his face. I didn't see the gunshot wounds immediately. He was wearing black and it was dark and… the blood didn't show very well. Agent Thirteen got to him first, checked his pulse, called for EMTs on her radio. That's when I spotted the sniper on the roof."

Something in Pierce's expression changed. Not drastically, but for a second that grandfatherly warmth was replaced by a cold intensity. His eyes narrowed for a second, frowning. "Are you referencing the person you believe to be responsible for Fury's death?"

That was a very long-winded and diplomatic way of saying 'Fury's killer'. I pressed my lips together and nodded. I swallowed to clear my throat, and found that it was stuck there. I winced a little, and said, "He was in the right position, beyond the wall where the shots originated from."

"And how long had passed between shots fired and you noticing him?"

"Thirty seconds. A minute at the most."

"And why would the shooter stay behind like that?" Pierce said, a small but distinct note of doubt in his tone.

"To make sure he hit his target." I replied at once, heedless of the disbelief he was throwing on my story. It didn't occur to me how unlikely it was, because I already knew from experience how it would make sense. "The sniper shot blind through a wall. He wouldn't know immediately if he'd hit Fury or not. He was waiting for a visual to confirm the kill, or to try again. Either he got it, or he realized he was spotted, so he ran."

Pierce nodded once, appearing to accept this. Then he asked, "You thought it was male? Why?"

"Because — because he looked like it," I frowned, shaking my head. "Tall, broad-shoulders, you know, male physique. Wait, didn't Steve get a visual on him?"

"Captain Rogers confirmed it was a male, but I wanted to hear it from your perspective," Alexander Pierce said, leaning back and folding his arms. "I'm not challenging your story to be hostile, Amelia. I'm making sure I understand all the facts; from the sound of it, you and Rogers confirmed physical description separately." he paused, canting his head to the side, then added, "Rogers also reported that the man had a metal arm. Does that sound familiar to you, Amelia?"

My heart skipped a beat. Steve hadn't said that to me; we hadn't spoken much at all since he came back from trying and failing to catch the sniper.

At both times I was elated and terrified. Steve knew. He knew I was telling the truth.

It also meant he knew about the Winter Soldier.

But he had said nothing to me. Nothing when we were surrounded by SHIELD.

Why?

"M-maybe," I said at length, my eyes drifting back to Pierce's face. Still as serious as ever; he didn't seem to notice my second of hesitation. "He was too far away for me to really tell. I saw a glint of metal, but that could've been from his weapon or his scope."

"Hmm," Pierce mused on this, pressing two fingers to his lips as he cast his gaze about the room. Meanwhile, my heart was thudding hard in my chest. If Steve hadn't said it was the Winter Soldier — and I couldn't be sure if he really had or not — then neither would I.

How could I explain how I knew what that was? The last time I brought up seeing the Winter Soldier, SHIELD had blown me off. Me and my entire statement had been wiped from the records to clear their own asses.

At least, that's what Coulson told me.

"And afterwards, you aided Agent Thirteen in giving emergency first aid," Pierce continued after a long moment. "She ordered you to fetch materials, which you did, and did your best to stop the bleeding while waiting for the EMTs to arrive, and Captain Rogers to return. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"And what were you doing in the period of time when you and Agent Thirteen were separated?"

I blinked, caught off guard. "What do you mean? I was looking for blankets and a first aid kit, like she asked."

Pierce stopped musing to face me again. The frown had returned, the same doubt he was using earlier. This time, though, it didn't seem superficial. "Agent Thirteen noted there was an extended period of time, a little under ninety seconds, where she could not see you or observe your actions. I want to know what you were doing in those ninety seconds."

"I was… I was looking for the first aid kit," I repeated, straightening a little and pressing my hands flat against my knees. If I clenched them, showed any defensiveness, Pierce might pick up on it and assume some kind of guilt or lie.

Pierce looked unconvinced, and didn't hesitate to ask: "It took you that long to find it?"

"I was unfamiliar with the apartment," I responded, just as quickly. "I'd only been there a few days. Steve wasn't there, so I couldn't ask him where it was. I figured it was either in the closet, which is where I got the blankets, then the bathroom, or the office. That's where I looked. I came back as soon as I had everything."

I knew why Pierce was asking. He suspected that I was up to no good, which I was. But was it really unbelievable to take ninety seconds to find a goddamn first aid kit? Hoping I sounded innocent enough, I posed the question: "Is it really that strange? I  _thought_ I was pretty fast. It took longer for the EMTs just to get the stretcher through the door."

Pierce chuckled, dropping his hands. "Ah, fair enough. Sorry, Amelia, I'm just making sure every second in the timeline has been explained."

"I understand." I knew if it had been my friend killed, I'd go just as hard to find out everything that happened. Considering my paranoid ass, I shouldn't be surprised that Pierce was questioning every little thing. "Can I, er, can I ask you something, Mr. Pierce?"

"Oh, please don't call me that," Pierce gave a laughing wince, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. "Makes me sound old. But yes, go ahead."

I hesitated, biting my lip. "Is SHIELD still watching me?"

Pierce blinked at me. "Why would we be monitoring you? As far as I know, you've never had a run-in with SHIELD before. Have you?"

I rubbed my hands together, considering my answer very quickly. Pierce didn't know. Of course he wouldn't. Fury was head of SHIELD at the time I'd worked with Coulson's team. Even if it was off the books, Fury was informed; he had to be. But what were the odds of him passing off relevant information to Pierce before he died? Alexander Pierce and Director Fury were friends, but how much did Fury trust him?

"No," I said. If Pierce didn't know, he didn't have to. And if he  _did_  know, then he'd know that I stuck to the story SHIELD gave me to begin with. "Not that I'm aware of, at least. I don't know, I just thought, because of Steve —"

"That we monitor any and all that have a place in his life?" Pierce finished for me with a leading tone. He gave me an appreciative look, to show he meant no offense. "Yes, we do, Amelia. But only cursory checks. You have nothing to fear from us, I promise. We do what we must to protect our assets, and I can assure you, SHIELD does not consider you a threat or a target in any form."

"Oh. Okay."

"I understand that you and Captain Rogers share a… familial relationship?" Pierce raised a single eyebrow.

"I — yeah," I ducked my head, embarrassed by the way he worded it. "This trip was supposed to be a sort of father-daughter thing, but uh —" I caught myself, only too late, at the slip.

"Oh?" Pierce looked interested in this. It felt like we'd strayed from the actual statement part of the conversation, but I couldn't help but wonder if he had more than a professional interest in my case.

"Yeah, it —" I stuttered, shaking my head, scrambling for a way to save this line of thought without giving myself away. Did SHIELD know I was a Super Soldier, outside of Coulson's team? I couldn't imagine I'd be a non-threat if they did. As friendly as Pierce appeared, I wasn't sure I could trust him to know that if he didn't already.

Finally, I managed, "... It's not going too great."

"No," He agreed with a small, sad chuckle. "No, I can't imagine it would be. I do have another question for you, Amelia. Do you have any idea why Nick Fury was there in Captain Roger's apartment?"

"No," I said. "I had suspected from the music playing, that tipped us off, that someone was probably inside. But I never would've guessed it was the Director."

"Have you ever met Director Fury before?"

"No."

"And did you know that Steve's apartment was bugged?"

I swallowed.  _I could've guessed_. "No. Is that part of SHIELD monitoring for his protection?"

"SHIELD doesn't bug its own assets," Pierce replied, and from his tone it seemed like he really did not like this revelation any more than I did. "I can tell by the look on your face that surprised you, but SHIELD  _does_  have boundaries, Amelia. There are lines we won't cross. No, Fury did that, on his own. And I'm trying to understand why."

I wasn't sure I was ready to believe him, but Pierce said it with such conviction that I believed  _he_  believed in a SHIELD with clear ethics and morals. "Maybe Fury had a different idea of how SHIELD should run."

"Maybe," Pierce said, in a quieter tone. "Or maybe he preferred to work outside of it."  
  
I didn't know what to make of this. Here was Alexander Pierce, trying to find the person or people responsible for killing his friend — now suspecting the same man, placing distrust on him. What the hell was going on? "I thought he was your friend."

"So did I," Alexander Pierce fixed me with a wan, sad smile, a smile that knew too much. Pulling off his glasses, Pierce squinted at them for a moment, before tucking them into his breast pocket. "But it seems I didn't know Fury as well as I thought I did. But! I suppose that's it for me. Thank you, Amelia, for your patience. I'll make sure your personal effects are returned to you as soon as possible. And something to eat. I bet you're pretty hungry, huh?"

It hit me then I hadn't eaten since yesterday morning. "Oh. Yeah. Thank you."

"Ah, don't worry, it's the least I can do," With a slight grunt, Pierce rose out of the seat. As he headed back towards the exit, I relaxed in my seat.

So, that was the end of that. Two statements in two days. I wasn't sure how much more questioning I could take before losing my mind.

"Oh, and one more thing," Pierce suddenly stopped just as he opened the door. He closed it again and faced me. "Where were you the morning of Fury's death?"

"I — I was…" I did a slight double-take, swiveling in my chair to face his new position. Pierce's expression was enigmatic. I had no idea why he was asking this. "I was at a friend's house."

"Diana Hawkins' son, yes?"

My stomach dropped out of my chest. "Y-yes. How did you — ?"

"Sitwell told me you were there," Pierce gave me a knowing look, as if I were playing dumb. "I'm sorry, Amelia. I can only imagine what it's like to witness two terrible deaths in one day. Did you know her well?"

"N-no," I shook my head a second after I spoke, brow furrowing together. "If you already knew, why did you ask?"

"Because," Pierce said. "Diana Hawkins was killed the same time Fury was attacked on the road by unknown assailants. Perhaps this is just an old man talking, but I'm not the kind of person who believes in coincidences."

My body went cold. "Y-you think they're related?"

"I think it's worth looking into," Pierce said. Then he fixed me with an enigmatic expression. "While you were there, you didn't notice anything strange, did you?"

"Aside from murder? No."

"So you saw nothing of interest, even in her home?" When I shook my head, Pierce added, "We're aware that Hawkins was working on a big story, but we found no evidence of it in her house. No writing, no notes, not even on her computer. SHIELD has reason to believe something may have been stolen."

My body went cold.

Did he know about the notebook?

"If someone wanted to steal her work," I said at last, my hands gripping the arms of the chair to keep myself calm. The metal was cold against my exposed skin. I set my jaw, looked Pierce straight in the eye without blinking. "Maybe they should've checked to see if it wasn't in the car with her first."

"Hm, fair enough," Pierce said again, his brow drawing together but the look in his eyes remained the same. His eyes glanced down, to my left. Then he smiled.

"What?" I asked, feeling slightly unsettled. Or, rather, a lot unsettled. I couldn't shake the feeling that Pierce  _knew_  somehow. I didn't need to look to know he'd glanced at my tattoo. In the back of my mind, I wondered why he never commented on it.

"Oh, just thinking to myself," Pierce replied, and with a click, the door opened. He finally broke eye contact as he shook his head and laughed softly. "For a moment, you looked just like your father."

* * *

# ✮✮✮

* * *

Steve came by half an hour later with my clothes. And some beef stroganoff.

"Sorry, it was all they had at the cafeteria," Steve apologized with a chuckle as I took the contents from his arms. That wasn't what caught my attention, however.

I stared at the suit he wore. A muted dark blue, lacking the red and white stripes of his classic look, with only the silver star remaining true to the original. It was not a look I'd ever seen before, but at once I could tell it was not the first time he'd worn it. The knees and shoulders shown slight signs of wear, and the leather straps that made up his shield holster were perfectly fitted and pliable.

He'd worn it before. And he was wearing it now because he was here for business.

Steve seemed to notice what had caught my attention. He looked down at himself, then back at me. His expression shifted to one of contrition. "I'm sorry, Mia. I couldn't tell you. But maybe I should have."

"It's okay," I said, although it felt a little bit like a lie. It wasn't like I could criticize him; I had my own secrets to deal with. "I should've told you, too. About Kate."

"You tried to," Steve pointed out, and at my look of surprise, his mouth quirked to one side. "When you stopped me in the stairwell, that's when you were going to tell me, right?"

I nodded.

"And that's why you ran away last night, when you figured it out."

I nodded again, then grimaced. "It wasn't just that I found out. I confronted her about it, and that's when she said she was SHIELD, and that I couldn't tell anyone —"

"You confronted her in her own apartment?" Steve raised his eyebrows. "That's… bold. Reckless, but bold."

If that was meant as a critique, I didn't appreciate it. "If I knew she was SHIELD from the get-go, I wouldn't have tried it. Anyways… Agent Thirteen said if I tried to tell you, then my secret was out."

"She threatened you?" Steve took a half-step forward, eyebrows shooting up. His light tone from before vanished in an instant. The sudden intensity had me backing up a little. He glanced away, clearing thinking this over. "And you still tried to tell me anyways."

"Not soon enough," I muttered, shrugging.

"You might have," Steve fixed me with an appraising look. "If you already knew I worked for SHIELD. Seems like we both would have benefited from being more honest with each other." he just sighed, shoulders sinking. "I suppose it wouldn't have changed Fury showing up…"

Or someone killing him.

I set the items on the counter. The container of beef stroganoff was still warm, and despite my mood, I started to salivate at the smell. "Yeah, I guess not." I frowned at him. "What are you going to do now?"

"Right now?" Steve set his hands on his belt, looking super enthused. And by that, I mean not at all. "I have a meeting with this Alexander Pierce. After that, we'll see. Get you back home to New York before the end of the day. I think it's best to call this, er, vacation quits."

"It was nice while it lasted," I offered with a half-smile. I meant it; there were a lot of ups and downs, but despite it all, I didn't regret it. "I'm glad we did it."

Steve seemed surprised by this, before he, too, smiled. Not a full one, but just as sincere. "Well, that's — I-I'm glad. I wouldn't have blamed you if you didn't. But I'll check back with you soon, okay?"

He placed a hand on my shoulder as he said this, and squeezed when I nodded. Just when he was about to leave, however, Steve paused. "And, uh, don't talk to anyone while I'm not here, okay? I don't want SHIELD to ambush you."

"Oh," I had just slipped on my jacket, frowning. "Pierce already came by earlier to talk to me."

A look crossed Steve's face. Not necessarily fear, but something close to it. "What did he want?"

"My side of things, apparently."

"And what did you tell him?"

"Nothing I didn't say before." I said. "Pierce told me what you saw, but I never got a good look at the shooter."

I said this without breaking my gaze. Steve held it, only blinking once, and an understanding passed between us. I hadn't said anything about the Winter Soldier. And neither had he.

Steve opened his mouth to say something, reconsidered it, and closed it again. After a moment of thought, he exhaled through his nose. "Good. That's… that's good. Just hang tight for a bit, okay? It'll be over soon, I promise."

Then I was on my own again.

I didn't know how long this meeting was going to take, but I figured, if my wait time was anything to go by, it was going to be a while. So I took my time eating and getting the rest of my clothes on. I folded my spare clothes, the one I had been wearing yesterday, into the overlarge jacket pockets. They were so thin it barely weight it down.

There wasn't a clock in here, but my phone said the time was passing by very slowly. Service was limited here, and I didn't have the password to their wi-fi. Not that I  _wanted_  to give them even more access to my phone…

Rumlow had been the one to escort me in here. According to him, I wasn't allowed to leave until I got to okay from the higher-ups. I assumed this meant Pierce, but he hadn't said anything about it when he'd left earlier. Maybe they still had to verify my story through other channels.

Whatever it was, I was getting pretty sick of being stuck in here.

About fifteen minutes later, I got a phone-call from a mystery number. Like the typical millennial, I didn't answer any unfamiliar caller IDs. I deliberated if it was worth the possibly awkward call with a telemarketer.

But would I really get one right now? Deciding to take my chances, I picked up my phone and answered: "Uh, hello?"

" _Are you safe?_ " Steve's voice crackled through, loud and panicked.

"What?" I jolted, rising out of my seat. "Yeah, I'm fine. What's wrong? Whose phone is this?"

" _STRIKE team just tried to take me down_." He was panting, out of breath. The phone buzzed like it had been dropped too many times. " _Something's going on, something —"_  a loud noise interrupted him. " _Mia, listen to me very carefully, you can't trust them, you can't trust any of them, SHIELD has been compromised_  —"

Just as I was turning towards the door to see if there was anyone outside, I froze. " _What?_ "

"—  _it's not safe here. Can you get out on your own_?"

Pressing a hand to my head, I thought fast. "I could, yeah. Going to be hard, though."

" _Well, it's about to get a lot harder._ " A loud bang. " _Mia, I need to know that you're going to be safe. I don't know if I'll be able to get to you_  —"

"Don't worry about it, I can figure something out —" It was hardly my first rodeo. Steve sounded upset enough, so I tried my best to keep my voice calm.

"—  _Copy that."_ Steve's voice was sharp but even. In control, already thinking ahead. " _We meet again in twenty-four hours, at the wall, do you understand?_ "

The wall? Oh, the Freedom Wall. "Understood."

I had no idea what was going on. SHIELD, compromised? By who? How long? Already my brain was kicking into high gear, sorting through the crisis suddenly arising. Steve was being attacked. I was trapped up here. He couldn't get to me.

I was on my own.

" _Good. After this, throw away your phone. Keep your head down, don't draw any attention._ " A pause as he took a deep breath. " _And Mia?_ "

"Yeah?"

" _I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry,_ " He seemed to be talking to himself now, his voice pained. " _I never thought this would happen_.  _This is my fault._ "

That was when the emotion got to me. My throat clamped up, and I tried not to sound too choked or scared. "I-it's okay, I'll be fine —"

" _I know, I know. But things are going to get a lot worse before they get better. Whatever happens, Mia, I want you to know_ ," Steve's breath was picking up again. In the background, I heard shouting. " _I'm with you to the end of the line._ "

Behind me, a muffled smash. Alarmed, I spun around and looked out the window.

Someone had just jumped  _out_  of the elevator twenty floors up.

The shield was instantly recognizable.

Captain America had just left the building.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Chapter Fifteen  
**

# ✮

* * *

As Steve Rogers smashed through the glass ceiling of the atrium and came crashing down to the floor below, he wondered if he'd made a grievous mistake.

Not the jumping-out-of-the-elevator part, no. As far as reckless choices went, that was a relatively low key example for him. No, rather, it was what lied beyond the elevator, far out of reach.

Steve winced as he climbed to his feet, surrounded by startled SHIELD agents. Mostly suits and analysts — all too stunned by the mere sight of Steve and his entrance to try to stop him, when he bolted for the garage. Still, even as he scrambled for his motorcycle, an alarm rang out: total lockdown. No one enters or leaves.

That didn't stop him, however, as he tore out of the garage, flying through the closing gates and spilling out onto the bridge at breakneck speed.

The gate clanged shut behind him with such a force he felt the bridge shake. Breathing hard, Steve glanced over his shoulder. At the glittering silver-blue Triskelion that loomed over him.

One of those many glass floors, stood Mia, on her own. Trapped as he left her in an impossible situation.

Steve wondered if he was going to hell for this. If he didn't, then he should, because he was having a hard time living with himself at the moment.

So was SHIELD, apparently.

A black shape cut across his vision; Steve switched attention to the quinjet that had suddenly arrived, swooping in low and coming to a stop, hovering over the bridge 500 meters in front of him. Steve heard an order announced through loudspeakers, but wasn't listening. He was already reaching for his shield.

Leaving Mia to escape while the Triskelion was under lockdown was his fault. Leaving her behind at all, Steve could hardly bear. Every instinct in his bones was telling him to turn back, to just get in there, and bust her out.

With a great leap, Steve launched himself from his motorcycle, catching the wing of the quinjet and scrambling up and over. Before the pilot could try to shake him off, Steve slammed the shield into the spinning blades of the engine.

But for whatever reason, he couldn't. Because SHIELD had him cornered. Because the only thing Steve knew to do right now was  _get out_ ; Get out and get that flashdrive, the drive Fury died to give him. Because Steve knew if Mia stayed with him, she might be in even  _more_  danger. If he went back, he'd get caught, or trapped, which wouldn't help either of them. Steve also knew, without ever having to ask, that Mia was not as inexperienced as she pretended to be sometimes. Steve knew better than to consider her completely helpless. Mia was possibly even more dangerous than he gave her credit for. In the end, she was someone who could take care of herself.

Steve had a choice, what to prioritize: Fury's sacrifice, or Mia's life.

The drive was vulnerable. So was Mia. Fury had died for it. But Mia was still alive.

Unlike the drive or a dead man, she could still fight.

It was a pragmatic maneuver. Something Natasha would do.

Nothing Steve told himself, however, could change the fact that he felt like a coward. That he felt as if he had just betrayed one of his core beliefs.

A soldier never left a man behind.

Mia could handle herself. But she shouldn't have to.

As Steve leapt from the failing quinjet, he made a quick prayer to God; protect Amelia, keep her safe when Steve wasn't strong or brave enough to.

And pray that nothing happened to make him regret this decision even more.

The quinjet crashed onto the bridge, blocking the main entryway; it would serve as a temporary roadblock to anyone that followed him on land.

With one last look to the building, guilt a coiled snake in his gut, Steve turned and ran.

* * *

# ✮✮✮

* * *

"Can I have that on rye? Oh, and don't forget the extra mustard. Oh! And the banana peppers, lots of those…"

Peter was idly swiping through his Instagram feed as Ned made his traditional and complex order to the aggrieved Mr. de Maggio behind the deli counter. Mr. de Maggio was patient, however; Ned's big sandwiches also meant big prices, and Ned always paid without complaint.

Peter grinned when he found that the Daily Bugle had liked his close-up of Spider-Man in action; one step closer to an intern photographer.

Mr. de Maggio's assistant took Peter's order, which he gave in a half-minded mutter. He was too engrossed in his phone, in the brief messages Mia sent to him, trying to piece together the mystery that was her Spring Break vacation.

He had been checking Mia's Instagram profile every day — although Peter maintained light but regular communication with her via text, Mia was always frustratingly terse. Her photos told a more detailed story of what she was up to in DC. Stalking her profile was better than asking the same question over and over and hoping for a different answer.

Mia never used her account much — certainly not as much as Peter, who posted multiple times every day, every week — but he was always pleased to see something she posted.

Over the past few days, a few new photos filtered in: a shot of the Lincoln Memorial in the early morning here; the Freedom Wall with its undulating waves of golden stars there; a plate of spaghetti; an old records collection next to a gramophone (Mr. Rogers'...?); a rooftop photo of a sunset over the DC skyline, illuminating the Washington monument in the distance; and a selfie of Mia wearing a Captain America baseball cap and flipping off the camera.

Mr. Rogers himself was noticeably absent in all her photos, not that Peter was surprised. That didn't bother him; what  _bothered_ Peter was the fact that Mia didn't put any comments or description in her photos, or any hashtags so people could find them. The only reason she even got any likes from her short friends list, whoever in school was lucky enough to find her private profile; Mia followed exactly three people on Instagram (Peter, Ned, and Michelle). He couldn't figure if her lack of effort was due to not understanding the app, her difficulty with writing, or simply because she just didn't really care for the popularity or digital acclaim.

Peter was betting it was the last one.

Over the past week, Mia had been posting almost every day. She was, by all accounts, enjoying a pleasantly average vacation. Peter had been enjoying the regular updates up until two days ago, when she suddenly stopped posting completely.

Least to say, Peter felt a bit odd about it.

Which was why he was on the app now, waiting for her to post something. Despite her very small album, Mia tended to post in the early mornings or late evenings. It was verging on noon now and Peter wondered if something had happened on the trip.

Well, something  _did_  happen in DC; a reporter lady got killed. Diana Hawkins, a name vaguely familiar to Peter, had died only yesterday.

"I'm sure she's just having fun times with her totally-not-a-superhero dad," Ned said when Peter voiced his concerns. Ned took his overstuffed sandwich from Mr. de Maggio with a quick thanks, and they headed with their lunches to an outdoor table. "I'm still surprised you even managed to get her an Instagram at all. She stopped using Facebook after she died."

"Because Facebook disabled her account and wouldn't let her back on it again," Peter said with a roll of his eyes. "Also, I think she just forgot the password after two years and didn't want to admit it. But that's not the problem. I just get this bad feeling, Ned. Something's up."

"What, like she's in trouble?" Ned asked around a mouthful of lettuce, ham, and peppers. A woman sitting nearby glanced at him and wrinkled her nose in disgust. Ned swallowed his bite and continued, utterly oblivious. "How bad can it be when you've got a certain Captain out there to watch your back?"

It was a fair point. Privately, Peter was always worried about Mia's safety. Sure, she wasn't your friendly neighborhood superhero, but whenever she  _did_  get in danger, it was always high-risk, life-threatening events. There was no mildly unsafe middle-ground for Mia. Either she was living a completely normal civilian life, or in a constant, violent battle for survival.

"Maybe she figured out what her dad does for a job," Ned joked. "Well, besides being an Avenger."

"Ha," Peter gave a single, humorless laugh to show how amused he was by that. But then he thought; what if it was true? When Mia was  _really_  quiet, it usually meant she was processing some deep, uncomfortable truth. Like the time she figured out he was Spider-Man.

_That_  had been an uncomfortable experience.

"Well, what else could it be?" Ned asked, throwing Peter an annoyed look of his own. "It's not like she's gonna get kidnapped again."

Oh, if only Peter could tell him. Kidnapping would be the least of their problems.

"You could also, you know," Ned added, raising both eyebrows at Peter with a decidedly unimpressed expression. "Call and see if she's okay — like a normal person,"

"What am I gonna say? 'Hey, Mia, I've been stalking your feed and you haven't updated in two days, are you feeling alright?'" Peter posed sarcastically. "I'm just gonna sound like Big Brother."

"Aww," Ned said, before a teasing grin pulled at his face. "But don't you know? Big Brother  _cares about you_ , Peter!"

"Oh, shut up."

They continued to eat in peace for a few minutes; Peter was glad for the silence, to stew in his consternation. He was almost tempted to tell MJ about it, but he was afraid she'd do the opposite of Ned: just throw wild conspiracies at him, like the government was monitoring all their communications and marked anyone so much as mildly abnormal as a threat to their power. Amelia, of course, would be at the top of their list, being a super soldier and all (not that MJ knew that, of course). Being related as they were, Peter would only pose as another danger, so cutting off all communication with him would be considered as an act of protection.

...Yeah, that probably wouldn't help.

Just as Peter was done freaking himself out, Ned started frantically tapping his shoulder. "Pete, look!"

A small crowd had gathered in front of an array of TVs in the storefront next to Mr. de Maggio's — each screen was projecting an identical image, from a local news channel. Something had interrupted the main programming, a nationwide alert. Both boys got up to get a closer look. At first Peter thought it might've been a storm warning, but then he recognized the headshot of Captain America.

Peter stared.

Beneath the face, in large white text, read: FUGITIVE FROM LAW. IF YOU SEE THIS MAN, CALL 911 IMMEDIATELY.

A collective gasp ripples through the onlookers. Peter and Ned exchanges stunned looks. Holy shit, Captain America was the country's Most Wanted.

Watching for a minute more, Peter waited for any sign, any word on Mia. He expected her to be marked a fugitive as well, but in a twist, Peter was surprised to see that she got no mention at all.

What the hell was going on?

Peter reached for his phone.


End file.
